There is a bug-bite on my inner thigh,

and did I fuck a mosquito? 

Right now I can’t say no,

since the coolers were full 

of Raineer and ice and lime beer-garitas, 

and the mosquito was being particularly funny, 

was making everyone laugh with his stories about work. 

The mosquito looked so cool 

with that ironic baseball cap 

and an American Spirit perpetually smoldering 

beneath his proboscis. 

Clearly the alpha of the evening, hovering 

just enough above it all 

to make me feel chosen when he smiled 

at my joke, listened to my story, pulled 

his camp chair next to mine in the circle, 

one tattoo latticed wing 

brushing the back of my arm, 

making me shiver–and the rest

is a blurred montage 

straight out of first year film school–soft focus of hands 

on thorax, intercut with legs on legs 

on legs. 

And did I drink 

was I drunk from? 

did I fly?