Hay Fever

Rubbery fingertips poke

at sore, damp eyes.

In the back of my throat

where my body tries

desperately to drown

the pollen at my expense,

I can taste the medicine;

glassy, creamy, separated

from itself. The dark bottle

sits in the kitchen, snuggly

waiting on a shelf for morning,

noon and night.

I let my eyes bulge and

friends steal glances at me

in assembly, whispering,

wishing they had not thrown

freshly cut grass.