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Prairie Moon Dalton

Communion

 

I’m a mosquito’s first choice

in July dusk you can find me

 

scratching myself raw, using

my thumbnail to press a cross

into every soft welt.

 

But God made

these bugs too, and all

of us have to eat.

 

So every summer night, I bite

my tongue and spit all over

the porch rail

 

and once in a while

 

I let them sip straight

 

from my ankles and watch

 

as they grow full and dizzy

 

on me and the floodlights.

 

  

Hiwassee

 

Sunday evenings I wash the river

water from my hair.

 

The basin is dark with rust

but clean enough for me to swim in.

 

My body is grown now—the cigarette burns

on my palm stretch to fine white lines.

 

When asked, I blame a spider

I never saw. It crawled through


my window into my sleeping fist

and I held it close through the night. 

 

 

Prairie Moon Dalton is an Appalachian poet. Her work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, Rattle, The Allegheny Review, and elsewhere. She is currently pursuing her MFA at North Carolina State University.





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