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.