Laura Grace Weldon
IMMUNOGLOBULIN E ASCETICISM
I never expect it till it happens.
One taste and my tongue swells
to a welt, my lips sting as if slapped,
my heart stomps in marching band beats.
What is it this time? A trigger faint as a hint
of mustard or egg, almond or corn,
any of a dozen enticements my body
now regards as the enemy.
I tell my cells it’s safe to
take the world in. They argue ever
more vehemently. Days of nothing
but brown rice, water, Benadryl,
yet my tongue is still furiously rippled.
When I ask my body to explain, it says
our being is a small flame in a large forest.
Burn low, it says, just enough for light.
So I try, for now, to regard allergy as
simplicity’s ultimatum. To rice and water
I add tender greens from the garden
and warm them in the campfire I am.