Blood Meal - July 3 2026

 

Blood Meal

July 3 2026

They’re just living their lives, she said

so let them be.

 As if the black flies

swarming my head

should be left to feed.

As if a reverence for life

meant accepting persecution,

and that biting insects

should not be exempt

from human compassion.

Even mosquitoes,

who have killed more men

than all our wars

vendettas

and acts of neglect.

A blood meal

is how they make their living, she said

so let them be.

We are part of nature

and must do our part, she said

so let them be. 

But to serve nature

must my body merely be

a travelling smorgasbord,

irresistibly warm, engorged, and savoury?

Won’t they bleed me dry

if I acquiesce?

So while I admire her Buddhist forbearance

I’m but a weak and mortal man,

a bad humanitarian 

who can’t bear the itch

and would rather not risk

dengue

malaria

chikungunya. 

So I scratch, swat, slap

despite her glare,

run inside

flailing wildly

to fend them off.

Meanwhile, is that a glow of righteousness

I see enveloping her?

Or flushed red skin,

giving off heat

as she itches and swells?