Today morning
I saw a mosquito
burrow deep into
my father’s arm
drawing vials full
of sticky-red- blood
I fought my impulse
to swat-it-dead-flat
black-maroon-smudge
over bitter-coffee-skin
preferring our
hyphenated existence
I desisted from touch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the angle of approach in this poem.