a descent into poetry insanity |
one, two, three . . . this morning I counted people on the way to church. old, young, children— so many children. and I thought of Finland. sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . . imagine, if one in ten had blood turn to honey— tearing through veins with sharp crystal edges, leaving blind eyes and dead toes in its wake. thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two . . . imagine, if one in ten must test their blood for sugar before they eat, before they sleep, before they exercise, before they drive, before they make love or play with their children. fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five . . . imagine, if no one knew when the disease would strike— six weeks, six months, six years, six decades. an autoimmune disease has no respect for youth or age, no necessity for family history, no warning signs— one day healthy, the next dying. eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety . . . imagine, no cure. in Finland, a one in ten chance for finger sticks and syringes for the rest of a life. five hundred fifty thousand out of five point five million. Author's Note ▼ |