"Little Gals."
"They come at night on membranous wings.
I'm a soft deer browsing the woods
with strands of willow in my pelt.
When they lean in to call me out,
I shiver and shine in my thicket of one.
Do they know about the botch in my belly?
I think it's a gel where the white light rots.
One says, you know?
It's past time you bred, and opens
her mouth full of egg teeth.
You must have some kind of hatch for it, says another.
Or hole, says the third, clicking.
All three hang in the night air--
identical silk faces, identical jaw wires--
wanting to scoop me into their high humming.
I gallop, deep in shade, past grease-marked trees
to the lake where March mud dashes up my burning legs.
But soon, I feel them again at my belly,
spinning their round nymph-full selves,
pressing their 100 eyes.
There is a red delight in the heat and snap of their pincers.
They've made themselves so much finer this time.
New mouth parts, new bodies, brewing all
through my undercoat where I let them dig down
into the dim places."