'Mosquitoes' by Jennifer Juneau

the heat brought them in and each night they filled
their bodies with our blood. i woke you to kill them—your palm, still

asleep but with masculine effort and—smack! our blood
splattered on the wall in little red specks. i woke you easily

at 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. to snuff them out, buzzing above
our heads. i woke you because i can. after 10 years of marriage and a kid

i can do anything. i can complain incessantly about the sun rising and setting.
after 10 years of marriage, a wife’s got a right, even if the mosquitoes never buzzed

and my insomnia woke you for the company. because leaving you would mean
digging deep into the pockets of your blue business suit. besides, you’d miss me,

wouldn’t you?—a lovesick fool tap-dancing in Bally, while i do your laundry
and stitch the seams. i can wake you every night out of your corporate dreams

as long as i have the power to open and close my legs like a pair of scissors,
as long as the precious flesh that i eased from between my legs is yours.

because leaving would mean taking a piece of your body away.
my father told me ‘it’s a man’s world’ when i was just thirteen.

that’s why i can wake you every night if i wanted to. even if
the mosquitoes never buzzed. even if it’s as simple as that.

Jennifer Juneau: Jennifer Juneau's poems and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in 'The Seattle Review,' 'Poery International,' 'One Trick Pony,' 'Diner,'
'Beginnings' and 'Writers' Journal.' She lives in Zurich, Switzerland.