RIFE WITH PAIN

"No doctors, no masks, no needles," you scream
as I dodge your soaring barrage of missiles
from the back seat of the car.
How do you know where we are?


Only three years old, at first you dozed
in the moments of dusk to dawn
to the cozy, quiet drone of tires,
while you were sitll snug and warm.


But somewhere the mistrust has formed,
an internal ticking rings alarm,
and when it does
you turn from sleepy charm
to rampantly pelting harm
to the back of my head
while I try to steer the car.


"No doctors, no masks, no needles," you scream.
Not bad for a child who can barely talk,
I grin in the rear-view mirror,
understanding your childish terror.


Only three years old, you've known IV's,
anesthesia, PIC lines and surgery,
strangers in white coats called doctors,
blood tests, Cat Scans, x-rays, MRIs.


And before we're done you'll know them more.
So I understand your cries of alarm,
but where you go, I go,
and I'll hold you in my arms,
and I'll shield you from all harms
it's in my power to--
then trust in the Man of Sorrows.


Love, Jody,