One Jar

I stare at a table strewn with delights,
From doughnuts to puddings to mini quiche bites.
Lush tartlets of shrimp, they glisten and gleam,
The delicate herbs, confetti on cream.

My stomach, it gurgles like gas in a drain,
My lips, they are pursed in a thin line of pain.
Smug odours of garlic swirl by my nose,
Plump savoury scones which spoil my repose.

The laughter, it splashes and sploshes like paint,
These guests are naïve and have no restraint.
They tempt me and taunt me with gluttonous mirth,
My ribcage it tightens, I’ve had this since birth.

A strange set of genes which do as they please,
My villi destroyed by Coeliac disease.
No gluten, no dairy, no legumes, or yeast,
At birthdays and weddings, all manner of feasts.

I’m trapped in a body that leaves me at sea,
No pizza, no burgers, no pasta for me.
The cafes and restaurants that hike up the price,
The limited choices a roll of the dice.

I don’t fit the mould and I feel out of place,
My iron is low and I take up less space.
I bring my own snacks and I paste on a smile,
With social occasions I’m always on trial.

My health, it is brittle like honeycomb slabs,
From Sjogren’s to joint pain, you wanna see my labs?
I pull out a cookie, my gluten-free treat,
Some people are asking: ‘Why can’t you eat wheat?’

I go through the motions and give them the spiel,
They quiz me and prompt me with infinite zeal.
My symptoms I’d rather keep to myself,
Once listed my dignity’s withered and shelved.

I stroll through the garden, my temper has cooled,
Bright bunting is joyous and waving and jewelled.
Crepe myrtles, they hover, protective and proud,
The perfume of roses perfuses the crowd.

A bee buzzes softly while somebody sings,
Broad stripes on its body and translucent wings.
My skirt billows out like a curtain of silk,
The petals of flowers the colour of milk.

My neighbour is hosting a one-off soiree,
Musicians and poets, a wordsmith ballet.
She’s asked me to read a most personal piece,
My writing’s cathartic, such potent release.

All snowflakes, all handprints, all leaves are unique,
Perhaps being different is not quite so bleak.
My story, my feelings are one-of-a-kind,
No matter my diet which leaves me maligned.

Compassion and caring are part of my core,
I strive to include and to foster rapport.
It doesn’t come easy; some days I’m a grump,
I hang out at home and I dress like a frump.

I have a good scribble; I’ve layers to peel,
My notebooks are many, my fury is real.
The worlds that I conjure comfort me most,
My ramblings are captured with every blog post.

It’s then that I see him ascending a ramp,
His forearms are bulging, his forehead is damp.
A guy in a wheelchair, he’s looking my way,
I glance at my slingbacks, the leather is grey.

My heart, it is beating, my mouth paper dry,
But forward I march; towards him I fly.
He’s wearing a bracelet with wording inscribed,
He watches his sugars; some meds are prescribed.

We laugh at a puppy, barking at moths,
His soft little ears, he laps up some broth.
I show him my poem, he gives me a smile,
I muster my courage and feel more worthwhile.

And then I must leave him and stand on the stage,
The lectern is wobbling, I channel my rage.
I stutter and stumble, and keep my head down,
Emotions are pouring, threatening to drown.

But then he is grinning, urging me on,
I stand a bit straighter and read with aplomb.
I’ll never be ‘normal’, but none of us are,
The sorrow, the gladness, it’s all from one jar.