Our Favorite Allergies - New Poem Preview

by - 3:50 PM

This is the Victorian soul sister of my sis-in-law.

Allergies.  They're common enough.  Either you have experienced them at some point in your life or, I don't know what the alternative is.  You belong in an M. Night Shyamalan movie?

But here's my next thought: How many of us are allergic to things we can't stand?  How much easier would that be?  I detest cantaloupes, for instance (refer to the poem "C. melo" in my poetry book coming out this fall to determine just how deep this detestation runs).  If I found out I were allergic to cantaloupe I'd be all, "Awesome.  Easy.  A great excuse to not have to force myself to choke it down when it's taking up the spot of actual good fruit in 'seasonal fruit salads.'"  I could just confidently tell the waiter, "No, take this back.  I'm allergic."  Those are the magic words.  In the snap of a finger, that awful cantaloupe would be whisked away from my presence and firmly dumped in the trash.  Where it belongs.

But no.  We're either born with or develop allergies to things we love.  Flowers. Grass. Peanuts.  Wheat. The depressing list goes on and on.

In one of my recent poems entitled "This is One of Your Favorite Things Allergies" I capture a real-life buildup and letdown through the secondhand tale of my little sister-in-law's quest to pursue her life long passion. And then? You guessed it.  Allergies. So, here's to all of you out there, reading this blog post and sneezing while you defiantly keep your windows open this spring season.  This one's for you.

We might have eventually
Heard the tale
Sung of my little sister
Her little white room
With the purple curtains.
Lincoln Park lyrics
Sweetly embroidered and
Hanging at her door.
And then the horses.
Horses on the walls,
Horses on the shelves,
There's a book, no
A horse,
No a book about horses.
And a dream to one day
Ride free into the sunset
A single rider, a single horse.
And then train all the horses.
The day came
The scheduled first encounter
The first sneeze
Two, three
The closer the horse stamped,
Wagging its tail
The more violent the sneezing.
And so, little sister
You had to return to your room
And your horses' heads hung low
To bear up the weight
Of all of our
Antithetical dreams.

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