The (Natural) World Does Not Care About my Nose

The golden rod from the purple brown green wetlands
sits in a crystal vase on the table
With each of my steps on the rug to the table
its pollen disperses
upward to my nose.
I am not responsible for the flight of birds
or the rhythm of the oceans and seasons
or the honeybee that fornicates outside my window
And yet –
My nose drips white clear.

I am not in control of the histamine in my body
Or the genetic river that runs through my blood.
I whack the rug.
I salt and sand the frost on the walk
to make it less slippery even though
it is only September, nothing is frozen
but my repetitive thoughts about Mucinex
Visine and Netti pots.
I hiss at the fall leaves
My inner serpent aroused.
Knowing ragweed floats and is near.

There are dust mites minutia
inside the weave of my carpet
An India woman created to feed her family
I do not deny her the pleasure of
Economic survival
But the carpet along with the yellow weeds in the vase
With its crevices
Warp and woof
Congests my liver

Chinese elements say is a reason to sneeze.

My talking cat
Who
Wiggles his butt across the India lady’s rug in pleasure
does not tell me to get rid of the flowers, the carpet
Or him or ask me what I want
I can’t tell them.
I want to breath in a room empty of natural things.
It would be an insult to fur and the life cycle
And all that creates heat and light.
And meows with pleasure.
It would insult semen and ovaries
pistols and stamen
babies and lovers
the developmentally delayed and those who
cannot speak or see
and the very breath I want to breath
when it is September and the pollen
is floating.