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Pollen by Jeff Schiff Stories hold that nomadic tribes carried this mustardy grain in their shaggy boots seeding entire continents as they trudged unwittingly toward fruition Our own version is less random perhaps: what was miserable summer in central Jersey is now treed streets on the arid outskirts of Tempe What was cholla and dormant ice plant is now bougainvillea There is something about pollen that cannot be obviated spring's atomic metaphor exploding forever into a granular future For three weeks I have tried to hold against it against heat slow clouds against the microscopic particulate I shut a window block a door I mist the air having heard it can be settled pull a shade and sit disappearingly on the edge of my bed splitting sunlight from irritation I want to understand relief that the night will help or fat stars that sweat or semen evaporates on the bloom of a snapdragon or Ponderosa pine if you have sufficient patience My floor covered my bed sagging my nostrils eyelids tongue ears throat aflame... Instead I understand it drifts to tell us what bursts forth has many beginnings: the wind the wandering our need to suffer everywhere at once © Jeff Schiff « Home | Contributor Notes » Please comment on this poem. |
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