A hand within touching distance of the doorknob.
No light, no sound, the lintel black with absence and size.

The wristwatch that talks, “Time for your medications.”
Feeling, the cold drip inside your thigh, the scent of fear.

Quiet, the set is cleared and the long spaces grow still, dark.
Bitter scent of attempted, the light, the warm hatching eggs.

Open the door, pick its hinges, flood the house with darkness.
A short burst of steam, the mailbox slot hot as his asshole,

darkness within and the field of the open human page. The
check for his pills, and a glass of water from crystal springs

tipped to his mouth: he is old now, yodelling in a sleep
indecent, cracked, his hand furtive sly yanks at a single sheet—

Pull the tubes, throw open the black wooden door and let go.
All the world staring at him from inside his own eyes

and I’m like, the hand that takes the door by the knob, firmly,
uprooted, as once I made him come with my hand, till he

couldn’t stop gasping for breath. Now he can breathe, now
he can live, now he can come, now he can write “dead” in the dark.

If I must die, 
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings, 
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself—
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale

^{November 27, 2011}

1.

There is the alphabet of hope
and the alphabet of despair.

The alphabet of despair
with its three-letter diseases.

The alphabet of hope
with its three-letter cures.

2.

The alphabet of despair
led me to a man
toxic to himself, poisoned
by his body. A man

with HIV fearing
CMV. With PCP fearing
MAI. A man reciting
the alphabet
like a prayer: AZT, ddI
ddC. A man

in despair of AZT.
with thinning hair
and cheeks, afraid
of flowers, unwashed fruit.

He has bright purple
lesions, a white
tongue of hair.

3.

This poem is for John Maresca,
with his box of leather goods
and sequined dresses—
forever mingling hope and despair.

He got the MFA,
the mother fucking AIDS.