Candida

Call off the multi-billion dollar hunt
for slivers of Martian ice,
for abductees and floating rings of lights.
The aliens are in my cunt.

Inexplicable ectoplasm,
sometimes before, sometimes after blood.
Invisible teeth at the clitoral hood.
A sting and nag in place of orgasm.

Whether something gelatinous suckered
onto my face that night
I dreamed of a deadly pillow fight,
of tripping, being smothered

by tuna blancmange, I don't know.
But I've been fighting invasions, coaches
of microbes, impossible to blitz as roaches,
row by Space Invader row

forever. Don't come near.
You're a fine, warm host and they'll spring in millions,
in their tanks and their galleons,
into the wire of your hair.

Save yourself. Tell the admiral
to save on the ammo. Too late.
Leave me on some far moon to my fate
with my cunt, that undocumented animal.