The Lungs of Ticks

I use a bathtub to drown each one,
hold them under with tweezers
until I am wet to my wrists and laugh
at their curled legs in the whirlpool
of the drain. The next one will burn.
I’ll record the crackling pop
as it meets the lighter alive or
I’ll dissect it as a frog, draw some
secrets from its innards, find out
where the Lyme originates
for the spirochetes to encase
themselves or hatch with yawns.
I have tasted my blood. Salted water
from paper cuts, my hand always
rises to my lips without thought,
my spit to seal the nick.

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