At twenty-two I developed my first adult allergy. In a sound booth, during a dress rehearsal, a tiny reddish speck on my right hand asked me incessantly to scratch it. So I did, and did - a few weeks later my entire hand was blistered, burning reds and yellows. My left hand enflamed as well, angered by cold, dish soap, lotions, rings, and parched air. After I realized I could not cure myself I visited a doctor, was provided a salve. Today my hands are lovely provided I wear one, and only one, particular brand of crème.
My second allergy arrived between an illness and a wedding. An infection in my throat demanded amoxicillin – my body bore it strangely - a red rash crawling across my skin. It’s a popular drug, but I now belong to the anti-penicillin club.
My third allergy, in my mid twenties: hives, in place of my favorite extract -
lilac oil. I can apply this scent to my waist, or knees of elbows, but not my wrists or throat. (I think I have a feeble throat).
The following year my fair German-Irish skin decided to recoil from the sun.
Perhaps one of my relatives was indiscreet with a vampire back in the auld country.
During this latest chronicle of my body (now that I am ending twenties) the hollows where my arms join my torso have claimed a finicky preference for aloe. Otherwise, sores mark my choosy skin.
I surrender.
I have no options.
I am my skin's slave.
- I wondered what would happen if I took prose and carved it up into a vertical/poetic format. I might edit this one, since it really prefers not to be a poem. I like some of the lines, but really it is extremely difficult to make allergies interesting. Oh well, my experiment.
3/19/04 there, I made it a bit more prose-y. I couldn't live with the stanzas as they were.
Posted by acr at March 17, 2004 07:00 PM | TrackBack