Diabetes

Image courtesy of Julie Trout

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.