I drink the health-conscious mocktails
That my mom makes. They have obscure fruits like
Custard apple, nelli fruit and star fruits
In them. She adds some bees honey
And some youghurt and blends them into one consistency.
And every sip I take I feel like
I’m mocking everything diabetic
About the future-me. And perhaps I will never be diabetic
Thanks to my mom. Perhaps even
At 70, I will be hiding chocolates
In the fridge, not worrying about
Insulin injections.

And when your 70, needing a walking stick
And a neck brace and the only
Thing that seems to settle on your body
Are the mossies and flies, you can always
Unharness that wicked sweet tooth
And always ask for the corner icing piece
Of the chocolate cake.

And perhaps there will always be
Battenberg cake, muffins, scones and carrot cake
And sugar will be the bond between my wife and me.
After all, dessert will always be just a whopping serving
Of cake and that slice of cake
Is for us, a slice of life.

A slice of our own blighted need
To be man and woman. The romance of us, the little itches
And hitches that drift-proof our vessel
And carries it through. And we will stand together
Through every storm, ill and thrill,

Until we are deprived of that slice of life
When insulin do us apart.


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