In March sun shines and raindrops sprinkle,
freckling the pavement grey and black,
falling softly on my lips like spare, gentle kisses.
I am too warm in my winter coat but,
tricked by the cloudless sky, I have no umbrella.
In March mosquitoes are reborn, and so my flesh.
A row of red bumps.
You learn many lessons on an island,
such as: don’t fall asleep after eating pineapples.
The juice, so sweet, seeps into your skin.
When you awake, your hands are angry red,
a thousand tiny bites swelling.
“I’m never bitten anymore.
They love the foreign blood here,”
a Taiwanese girl once told me.
Etemology of Love
bears the covered heart
and lays it at your feet
I love you
and my most precious organ