There are no Mosquitoes in Spring
they’re still tentative,
waiting, out of instinct, to spawn,
fearful of cold snaps
evaporating whole generations
of early risers.

Storms precipitate from little,
and make noises like they want
to shatter my bedroom window,
or full trash cans, or recycling bins,
thrown against the wall just downstairs.

No dam breaks, all that is needed
is enough water
falling on an inclined plane,
to destroy every photograph
in someone’s basement.

Blood leaks when I slap
something tickling my arm.
Filth from the heat and air
coats into a thin film when I’m outside
for more than two minutes.

Later, violated by a tick
after walking through tall grass,
I slowly heat a lighter
to press against it,
then carefully peel it away.

— SG Phillips works in Viral Gain of Function Research in Indianapolis. He enjoys running, writing and playing music, underlining stuff in philosophy books, and watching fights. His favorite authors include David Ferry, Michael Herr, and Nicole Mullen. His other writings have been published in Expat, Ligeia, [REDACTED], Misery Tourism, and [REDACTED], sometimes under the pseudonym [REDACTED].

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