Notes from a small pond: Blood
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These are the nights. Hot like Vietnam, and muggy, the heat heavy and wet like a blanket drenched in lilac mead. The smell of butterflies. The box fan screaming I’m Trying! plowing hot air, me next to you, salty as the ocean, spooned. Saltwater sweat rolling downward, behind the knees, down the neck, and in the hairline, dripping onto the mattress, like crying.
Saltlick for mosquitoes and, every now and then, a cottony moth that ends up in the corner of the ceiling, shadow like the ghost of a dying angel, wings slow like time ticking. A bat — or a hundred — beat outward from a hole i...
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