I become the sneeze

machine. Sniffle monster.

Diaphragm a sick corset. Throat

cinched like a necktie. My head bowed

under the heavy crown of undetermined pollen,

maybe Bermuda or perhaps Kentucky blue.

I cower indoors snarling at the cedar

outside my window and narrow my eyes

at the maple, gold-dusting my Subaru.

Drippy and incoherent, I distrust all

that I have no control over. I crunch a corn cob

and imagine it as vengeance. My summer

in shambles. The park full of toxins. I’m left to rot

in my apartment. I could never claim tree-hugger,

but now I have an undiscriminating vendetta

against dahlias and wisteria. Blame the sinuses

for my hysterical display, double-birding daisies,

burr oaks, and birches. Bedraggled before ragweed,

I snivel like a medieval dungeon creep. Every green thing

is a possible foe whacking against my flimsy Allegra shield.

Make no mistake, the crumpled tissue I shake

is not a white flag but a ghost of cellulose

made from your kin.

Angela Lim is a poet, editor, and educator who is interested in poems that disorient and guide. She earned her MFA in Poetry at Indiana University and currently lives in St. Louis. Her poems can be found in Red Rock Review and Banyan Review.