Monday, February 12, 2007


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.


Atyllah said...

A lovely, well observed bit of whimsy - some inspiration from Donne's flea, perhaps :-)

Minx said...

Tis not whimsy, Atyllah, tis truth. Although I have to say that I am always the last to know if the cat has fleas - it seems my blood is not as tasty as some! Heh.

John said...

Must be the booze...

Minx said...

Well, yes, now you come to mention it.
The juniper in gin is a well known anti-flea device. The more you drink, the less likely that you will a)have fleas b)have fleas that are capable of biting or c)know what a flea is, much less care if it is having a nibble.
Off we go to the Gin Parlour once more. Hurrah!

Roberta said...

You have to be a Virginia Veterinarian. I hate friggin' fleas. The kill me. I still have scars from when I was in college and rented a flea bag apartment.

Had to bomb the damn thing!

You tickle me with the subject matter of your writing.