Skip to content. | Skip to navigation


Personal tools
You are here: Home / Lit / Pollen


The bright leaves traced their
Fingers in the sky, conductors
Of the twitching songbirds.
I wiped my brow of the yellow
Pollen which coats during the
Early spring, rendering all
Old and frozen, encased
As though for years in the cellar.
The young girl traces a finger in
The dust, absentmindedly, while
Musing the shock of hair on the
Boy from school. the dark
Cars are painted in gold leaf.
A man sneezes into a sodden
Handkerchief, rubbing the swollen
Tips on the back of the hand.

She presses her hips against the
Sun-warmed hull of the old black
Ford sitting hewn in chrome
Only in his eyes could she see
Where the attention lay.

It only seemed like morning to the
Man under a heavy growth of brown
Whiskers. the late afternoon filtered
Into the room with just the pollen
To hint at the waves and particles of
Our conversation. the mellow languor
Of the cool grass, never dirtied by
The chaff of the budding flowers.

Our kitchen was draining dishes
Balanced atop a wire basket. a room
Remit with a cake and munchies so that
I hardly ever felt the pang of hunger
And the elasticity of my flesh was
Challenged and i swelled into a rounded
Cloud heavy with storm, sure that all that
Was below feared my arrival.

There seems to be the shed grace of
Blue veins upon the floor from misspent
Surgery in a little hospital deep in
The forest where the surgeon is a dupe,
Coming from some college where the only
Course taken was in biology, and an f was
The result of a long drinking binge that
Ended on a boat down the nile into the jungle
Of men with only a past but certainly
No future. why should there be
A future for those untaxed, sitting atop
A gold mine of natural resources.

©1995 Chris Abraham