Poetry by David Rutiezerhttp://creativedavid.comshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1


Golf Mill

Golf, Illinois

My mother steps from the elevator

on a high floor, trailing me behind,

along curving walls within the cylinder building

‘til a door reads: Allergy Associates.

Dr. Melam, face round as a melon

and voice like aged gouda,

tests me for ragweed or pollen,

though usually I see the nurses:

Pat, voice thick as cocoa

and hair dark as olive,

who slips the needle–

or maybe I squirmed–

sending the silvery pinprick

careening through cubic miles of vein,

slicing my skin to tight ribbons,

or the tall one, after Pat leaves, whose name

I don’t remember, with fiery hair

that licks the sides of her face like flame,

then flattens at the top. She has cold hands.

One time I have what’s called

a reaction, and my forearm swells

pink like a balloon.

But mostly I pass the time in the waiting room

littered with magazines, or in the exam rooms

staring out angular windows, each one facing

a different direction, as I try and fail

to witness the balloon-bodies of the airplanes

wheeling low as marionettes towards O’Hare,

wondering how many feet higher I have to be

to touch all the people inside.

David Rutiezer