the di- as in diabolic —
rooted in siphon
the slurp of syrup in the veins
a sludge-sweet sewage. A drain.
I say, call it a jellyfish with hidden stingers,
a sucking sea anemone, a Judas kiss.
My son calls it one-step-ahead fox —
stealth-bomber, keeping him off guard.
Omnivorous. Always hungry.
I say, call it a four-square meal
of vigilance.
Call it a late-night horror show
whose theme prayer is if I should die
before I wake …
I’ve read about the dead dogs,
and the children, starved.
So many experiments —
One mother hates the dying sound of it,
wants a word that stands-up-proud-
on-a-protest sign.
Call it Rosewater, a sugar-baby lullaby,
the sourness buried in mounds
of test strips, phenol’s tarry smell,
and a bee-shot sting.
All right, call it Tenacious D, mock rocker
turned metal God strutting up and down
a honeyed tightrope, and
call insulin the island queen of soul,
blood sister, your rumba, salsa,
tango partner,
the one who lets you dip
but not fall.
Footnotes
This article has not been peer reviewed.