Type 2 By Sjohnna McCray

When I wake, this is what I tell myself:
I belong to this, to all the ghosts present

in the DNA. Diabetes,
an ancient Greek consort, sweeps through the halls

of my body. It seems the proper gift
from my father, memory locked down in the cells

of my bladder. Frequent urination
is a hard nag to beat. My body

is my father’s complaint. He rings at two
in the morning. A piss in the pot, a shot

in the dark. He’s never too far away.