David Anson Lee
ISLETS
They hold congress inside my pancreas,
a colony of pale islands, fluorescent and diligent.
I imagine them in earnest suits: tiny accountants
dividing sugar by decimal, debating thresholds.
Once, a fog of sweetness blew in,
and I felt the world stick to the back of my throat.
The islets quarreled; some resigned,
some sent letters written in insulin and regret.
I learned their dialect: prick, read, adjust, apologize.
Now mornings are ritual: needle, drop, arithmetic.
Insulin like prayer beads, small mercies I roll between fingers.
This is tedious holiness, a daily math of grace:
sweetness and restraint bargaining at dawn.
To live here is to speak gently to numbers
and call it forgiveness.
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