Oct 202014
 

Gabrielle Freeman

 

I push and twist the needle tip onto the pen designed for children;

the sharp punctures the rubber membrane of the small glass vial.

I pierce my daughter’s thigh, fatty enough for insulin.

 

Aurora was three. Potty-trained but wetting the bed, asking for water again

and again. When the newly diagnosed is a child —

I push and twist the needle tip onto the pen designed for children —

 

JDRF sends a stuffed bear named Rufus, his fatty parts evident

in colorful felt patches. At the ER, the glucose meter read, simply, high.

I pierce my daughter’s arm, fatty enough for insulin.

 

Aurora in her white Elmo panties, IV strapped down tight. Bruised skin

from nurses stabbing, from mommy forcing her to stay immobile.

I push and twist the needle tip onto the pen designed for children.

 

“That hurt mommy.” I fight the urge to defend

myself. “I’m sorry baby.” Insulin allows my girl to live another little while.

I pierce my daughter’s belly, fatty enough for insulin.

 

The vial, the pen. Invisible ink written

into her blood. Temporarily reconciled.

I push and twist the needle tip onto the pen designed for children.

I pierce my daughter’s thigh, fatty enough for insulin.

 Posted by at 9:21 am