The enemy within
“Asian women smell sweeter,” he says, deploying
his small sample size to explain the phenomenon
of insects tenderizing my flesh, carving
red hills on a ruddy skin. The Georgia Boy seeks
to conduct a personal evaluation, stretch
his fingers across each dime-sized point
of contact, institute a science
out of the history of invasion.
He could survey each hill, mark
it hematoma, pustule or corpus
incognito. I translate my bumps
to craters, the scars of An Khe,
Amritsar or Nagasaki, those global stings
in his memory, my landscape.
I snatch the bottle of OFF, target
my extremities, point
and shoot, launching
the next massacre.