Young and Bitten
We had so much to give—pennies, kisses,
blood mosquitoes love. We would let them land
on the back of a hand kept still and watch
the frail, tiny body fill and darken.
It was always twilight. The wings blue,
the legs weightless. Always we were quiet.
We’d let them fly off with nothing we would
grandly call “life.” Curiosity
made us generous. We’d go home tired,
in the air ripe with wings, bitten and young,
in the shadows of leaves, in the smell of phlox,
in the soft dark, in the world where we fit.
Tell me about your bouts of nostalgia?