Ode to a Mosquito

Stealth lover too
tiny to see
who comes
each night even
at dawn
to nibble on
my shoulder
the sole
of my foot
my inner
forearm: you plant
itchy swollen
kisses that tell me
you were
here. For you
I’m not invisible
as I was for the young
man with steel-blue
eyes who took
fifteen minutes
to serve me
café crème—dropped
a saucer that
drew blood
down my shin—
who kept
moving
wordless
returning
to sweep up
the shards
under
my chair.

Ode to a Weathered Door

With diamond-shaped eyes,
mail slot its slit mouth,
what once was dark green—now
faded teal strips worn away

by time and storms, its peeling
reveals grey wood patches.
Iron bars above and below
fix its hinges to the entryway.

If I were a painter I’d strive
to distress my canvas like this.
So why do I frown at my weathered

skin—see no beauty, no art?
Though Time, an action painter,
has also splattered its brush over me.

Isn’t It Funny

He was in one of those bands
that played in Central Park
when I was sixteen, virginal,

I used to dance in front of him
sway my arms overhead
when I was Joni Mitchell’s twin

with long straight blonde hair.
I bought their albums, I was
a fan. Almost fifty years later

through a dating site we spoke
by phone, he wanted to hear me
masturbate, invited me over, would

crack open his door to slip me
a blindfold, and lead me in.
An arrangement that didn’t appeal—

not to see him but for me to be
revealed. We never met. Why
think of that almost-scene? Is it

because I’m in an erotic drought
and almost anything might quench
my thirst?

Against Novelty

Novelty. The cult of novelty. The new is one of those poisonous
stimulants which end up becoming more necessary than any food.
—Paul Valéry

Living in a grey city with a bricked-up heart, a river
too polluted and swift to swim in—I admit I must
go elsewhere by the sea, yet what do I strive for?

To sink into the new and make it home. To find
my favorite café, beach, ice cream shop, and through daily
repetition to make the alchemical shift into routine

like a well-worn sandal that fits me best. I eschew
the new for its own sake. Imbibe the same view
each dusk and dawn from my patio—not to become

unresponsive to such beauty but to bathe in it,
allow its familiar shapes and ever-changing hues
to enter and deepen my outsider’s first-day

wonder at the new into something local
that I already knew. A living déjà vu.

Sharon Dolin– Associate Editor, Barrow Street Press,
Author of Imperfect Present and Translator of Late to the House of Words: Selected Poems by Gemma Gorga, 
Shortlisted for the 2022 Griffin Poetry Prize. 
sharonjdolin@gmail.com
www.sharondolin.com