She comes to me
in the early evening twilight
drawn by breath or scent -
with the merest of touches
she rests her fragile body upon me
pressing her eager mouth to my flesh
and delicately, with practised skill
she slides in her spiny needle
drawing the blood from a vein in my arm.
I watch as she drinks of me,
growing heavy and swollen –
I give myself willingly
and thus, I do not bleed
she leaves not a mark where she fed
softly withdrawing from me
as I, the great provider
offer up my body to the night -
feed, dear insects
drink of me -
my blood is surely thine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.