That winter was long and full of records: 
         snow up to our chests and the chill deep in our cells, 
                  the forever rain and with it, the mud that dripped 
                           like sap and became a part of us.

         Then came days of 
                  grass as soft as fleece 
                           bees flying like comets and goats 
                                     rotating around the creekbend we followed up until

                                              water water water was all we could hear, 
                                      until wild wild wildflowers were all we could see— 
                    a galaxy of them twinkling 
                            their bright violets and yellows and oranges,

a reminder of what has endured 
        what has always been 
                   what is now ready to be seen.

—

Like a lizard, I bathe           naked on a rock  

          and let the south wind and let the waterfall

and let the buckeye            lead me.  

The horizon is a line I cannot yet  say.

       The screen shows me what I haven’t seen in months,  

what others see: curves and a blur.

       Not a thing, but any thing. 

Finally, I am the animal that I am.

Cause we’re not allowed in public, not really.
My mom thinks everyone is enamored with my beauty,
But I know they are surprised to see one of us
Living. Outside is a stage & I’m a pretty player.
I love what I see on the other side of myself.
A man tells my mother he couldn’t take the doll,
Because my heels, my legs, my tattoos stopped
Him from looking me in the eye. He wants to meet
Me, to apologize for eating me from my sole up.
He’s the worst I’m aware of, but not alone in lust-
Filled gaze givers. All I want to tell my mother
About me. How they like my parts. She thinks
I’m unclockable until I speak & I know she’s trying
Not to blame me for any danger I dodge. Desire
Is in the eye of the beholder, but I live in the empty
Hands of discombobulated bastards. Disintegrate
In their salivating. I am shards of selves
They wish to suck between their teeth.

My life had stood a loaded gun
In corner, till a day
The owner passed — identified,
And carried me away.

And now we roam the sov’reign woods,
And now we hunt the doe —
And every time I speak for him
The mountains straight reply.

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the valley glow —
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through.

And when at night, our good day done,
I guard my master’s head,
’Tis better than the eider duck’s
Deep pillow to have shared.

To foe of his I’m deadly foe,
Non stir the second time
On whom I lay a yellow eye
Or an emphatic thumb.

Though I than he may longer live,
He longer must than I,
For I have but the art to kill —
Without the power to die.

      I

Admitted to the hospital again.

The second bout of pneumocystis back

In January almost killed him; then,

He'd sworn to us he'd die at home.  He baked

Us cookies, which the student wouldn't eat,

Before he left--the kitchen on 5A

Is small, but serviceable and neat.

He told me stories: Richard Gere was gay

And sleeping with a friend if his, and AIDS

Was an elaborate conspiracy

Effected by the government.  He stayed

Four months. He lost his sight to CMV.

      II

One day, I drew his blood, and while I did

He laughed, and said I was his girlfriend now,

His blood-brother.  "Vampire-slut," he cried,

"You'll make me live forever!" Wrinkled brows

Were all I managed in reply.  I know

I'm drowning in his blood, his purple blood.

I filled my seven tubes; the warmth was slow

To leave them, pressed inside my palm.  I'm sad

Because he doesn't see my face.  Because

I can't identify with him.  I hate

The fact that he's my age, and that across

My skin he's there, my blood-brother, my mate.

      III

He said I was too nice, and after all

If Jodie Foster was a lesbian,

Then doctors could be queer.  Residual

Guilts tingled down my spine.  "OK, I'm done,"

I said as I withdrew the needle from

His back, and pressed.  The CSF was clear;

I never answered him.  That spot was framed

In sterile, paper drapes.  He was so near

Death, telling him seemed pointless.  Then, he died.

Unrecognizable to anyone

But me, he left my needles deep inside

His joking heart.  An autopsy was done.

      IV

I'd read to him at night. His horoscope,

The New York Times, The Advocate;

Some lines by Richard Howard gave us hope.

A quiet hospital is infinite,

The polished, ice-white floors, the darkened halls

That lead to almost anywhere, to death

Or ghostly, lighted Coke machines.  I call

To him one night, at home, asleep.  His breath,

I dreamed, had filled my lungs--his lips, my lips

Had touched.  I felt as though I'd touched a shrine.

Not disrespectfully, but in some lapse

Of concentration.  In a mirror shines

The distant moon.