You are given up, deposited like a small stone
on the wing of a mosquito. You drown in the wind
of its voyages until it nestles against something’s skin,
softly, no more perceptible than a lover’s strand of hair
and the warmth draws you, shedding your egg, down
into a hole created by the archaeologist of blood,
your burrow needing no burrowing. You latch in,
the bite soon becoming an articulated womb,
the space beneath becoming your hidden teat,
the mosquito’s hole a mouth through which you breathe.
You are miraculous, you can fashion a man
into a surrogate mother bearing his own lurid dream:
that he has no control over how he might be used,
that he, the inserter, can be instead the place of insertion.
When you are ready, when you’ve grown past the size
of a spotted egg and even your smallest move transmits
a sort of agony, you will bloom painlessly, bloodlessly,
ghost exiting, and the man will feel your absence
suddenly and want to see you, having missed the event,
your perverse birth that left a blossom of wilted skin.
He, like a person checking the contents of his handkerchief,
will want to see you because of your having once been
a part of his body.