Mosquitoes Love Me

poem

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Mosquitoes love me.
No, they adore me.
I become the center
of mosquito world

during any outdoor
event. They'll bite me
twenty times while
everybody near me

gets bitten maybe
once or twice. Years
ago, a good friend—
a legendary flyfisher—

thought that I was
exaggerating. But
then I conducted
a science experiment 

where I stood five feet
from him on creekside,
opened my arms wide,
and welcomed my little

winged worshippers.
"Goddamn," my friend said
later. "You could see them
arriving like a mass bombing

raid on a city." Scientists
don't quite know why
mosquitoes are more 
attracted to some people

than others. They theorize 
about body scent 
and body temperature.
I do radiate heat—

I'm a human hot water
bottle for my wife on
cold nights, which is
lovely during winter

and just humid during
summer. I also fog up
car windows. Half
of the windshield will go

condensation-opaque
whether I'm the driver
or passenger. So maybe,
probably, my body heat

is why I'm the mosquito 
buffet. And, here, I must
kneel inside this poem's
church and confess

that I fondly remember
the 1980 volcanic eruption 
of Mount St. Helens
here in Washington. Yes,

I remember a natural disaster
with fondness because
the fallen ash suffocated
the still water on the rez

and killed a generation
of mosquito eggs. So, that
summer, we Indian kids
played outside without

being swarmed by skeeters.
Most pointedly, I played
in the moonlight for hours
and didn't end up looking

like a smallpox victim
when I returned home.
Now, one of the reasons
why I love living in Seattle

is because of the low 
mosquito population.
Our colder summers
and lack of swamps

and bogs seriously slow
down the mosquito
birthrate. In our city,
the water moves and moves

and moves. I don't recall
the last time that a mosquito 
bit me in Seattle. This is
an eccentric luxury. But, hey,

if the apocalypse does happen—
if civilization is irreversibly
mutated by disease, wars,
or climate change—then I'll be

of good use for the overlords.
You see, after the flood
recedes and leaves behind
all the breeding ponds

and puddles for mosquitoes,
I'll be the servant who stands
sweating on the perimeter 
of the nightly bacchanals

and gives my blood 
so the rich don't have to.
I'll be the donor and bank.
I'll be the sin

eater. The hog on the spit. 
I'll be more Indian at the end
of the world than we
Indians are now.