Fleas

Ferried in by the cat from the spent woods,
the athletes vault and gorge and multiply;
crack tiny, plump with our several bloods,
they hound us in our chairs to drink us dry.

Only sit awhile, turn a page,
one or two will show, stalwart pals,
to pass the time, have a drink, assuage
a thirst preliminary to their nuptials.

It’s the female who bites, actually,
and females she prefers to jump and swig,
blood meals a stolen nursery,
filched placenta for her clutch of eggs.

There is no end to them. No fog
of toxin stems them: they’ll own
the house when we lie finally in the rug,
rustling husks, empty kitchens, bones.

The family squirms in the infested chairs,
distracted, welted wife and girls, astir,
sinking slowly into grim despair.
I see them staring at my jugular.