for my first birthday after dx, we got donuts, and I cut off a bite from each one.
if they take what I want, I will scream,
I wait, my foot tapping, then ask the cashier:
“May I have a Bavarian Cream?”
His shows no expression—a pagan god, bored
that I supplicate for relief.
He nods, and I fish out my plastic to charge
this blessing takes more than belief.
I pay then I sit to take donut from bag
but before I can eat, I must bleed:
if my sugar’s too high than my conscience forbids
any carbohydrate, though I need:
ah donuts, I want you, indeed.
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