A Strictly Photographic Romance: An Anaphylactic Aubade

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Spring’s beautiful blossoms attack me with a fine mustard powder not a gas,
yet aerosolized enough to make me gasp for air uncluttered —
for oxygen filtered by Summer.

At least the bees are pleased, and as long as I keep my distance
they’ll keep their defences to themselves.

Unlike pollen, stingers have only one point of contact.

I thought I was more phlegmatic than you, but
now I find myself mostly phlegmy around you.

Your yellow dust a mist of thorns –
pricking breathing, drawing bleeding,
running, sneezing—

my nose is a mess!

* * * *

I love you, Anna Phylaxis
— my prickly Ann! —
and though I do know this is how
you love, Anna

— pollinating the wind to colonize the world —

and that this is how it has to be
between us if, if I am to
ever see your face, your flowers – or to

breathe your warm breezes – this

way you have of spreading your love
is a shock to my system –
irritating to my membranes and
hurting my heart and

taking my breath away, and
holding it –
then most painfully

spewing it forcefully, spraying it like spores to the skies.


* * * *

I love you, Spring, but
my love of you has become toxic to me.
Any relationship may need chelation
from time to time — and
until such time as I can stand
to breathe around you–

a restraining order is in order.

You must stay a minimum of a
one hundred thirty-five millimeter lens
away from me, and – alas –

a mask must always come between us.

Label me as insensitive, slur me as reactionary –
smear me as inflammatory – but

at least we’ll always have pictures.



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