Over time, the body,
when bitten enough,
can build up a tolerance
to mosquito bites
so that they no longer itch.
Then—though you might
be bitten a hundred times
on each arm
and again on each leg—
you won’t be bothered.
This comes to mind
when you walk in the store
and see by chance the person
whose words and glares have bitten you
ten thousand times before.
Shit. You forgot your long sleeves.
But this time, when you leave
the coffee aisle where you’ve both
been perusing the dark roast,
you notice nothing.
Nothing at all. No rise.
No ire. No welt. No itch.
No need to swat. No need to scratch.
Nothing at all. And you laugh
and wonder if the laugh is disguising
a pain response, but no,
you’re just laughing
because you’re proof that sometimes
after having been bitten enough
a tolerance comes—
and it doesn’t happen often,
but it happens. Call it grace.
Call it luck. Call it paying your dues.
Whatever it is, it feels so good
you may never cover up again.