I buy a small bucket of pollen from the beekeeper at Farmers Market, which I carry home in my palm like a grenade; terrified I might drop it. The bucket is clear plastic, with a thin lid and metal handle. Its slightly overfilled, and as a result, the lid keeps popping open as I walk, so I kneel down and pour a little pollen into the grass. Against the green, the little balls of orange and red are bright as candy. I reach down and squeeze a few between my forefinger and thumb, rubbing them down to a fine powder. My eyes sting and water, and on my thumb, bumps are already forming contact eczema, from my allergies. Theres something in this pollen that speaks to me. The poison, the sweetness, the danger in knowing what will happen if I open it. My allergies are intense, but Im drawn to it anyway. Maybe because its so raw. It still has potential for sweetness as well as death.