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.

and again the test comes back negative for waterborne parasites
for gonorrhea of the throat and of elsewhere       for white blood cells in the stool

this isn’t always true       sometimes it’s a phone call from your lover
sometimes it’s your computer blinking on with news of what’s wrong
              with your body    this time

simple really       how he says the name of a disease
and suddenly you’re on your back           staring out the window onto a highway

suddenly a woman enters the room       to wrap a black cuff around your arm
and squeeze until you’re no longer sick

to slip a device under your tongue       check in your sweat’s accompanied
by the heat it demanded

and aren’t we all of elsewhere sometimes     the nowhere places you make yourself
inside the hallowed chambers of the hospital    and inside the man’s unsure voice

when he calls and is too scared to name the precise strain of letters
you might share now       what parasite might feed on the topsoil of your groin

what laugh track                   what tabernacle unlatched to let all that god in
what bacteria spreading its legs in your throat      as you speak

when the illness is terminal            you drink an eighth of paint thinner
while all the color drains from your face

all those little rocks in your gut turned to buses    all those buses full of strange men
each     one degree apart        all going somewhere and gone now

funny how a word can do that       garage the body

what if instead he’d simply called to say     epithalamium    or new car    or   sorry

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.
     And he said:
     Your children are not your children.
     They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
     They come through you but not from you,
     And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

     You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
     For they have their own thoughts.
     You may house their bodies but not their souls,
     For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
     You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
     For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
     You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
     The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
     Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
     For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Never knew a thing about the Saint
Vincent, hearty name
a comforting stew
in a violent December

the first ward to welcome
the men who would become
my children until mothers
chose God over religion
love over blame
woke up from the stupor of shame
that worst of all AIDS complications

Jealous mothers
returned afraid 
awake that I might take their place
after one found me in bed
putting love into lesions
fields of killer berries blue
heralds of final breaths
our bodies gently threaded in tenderness

word got around
the best doctors looked away
nurses never saw a thing
as we snuggled, giggled
careful not to unplug anything
the joy of Popsicles
the birthday cakes
the friends who came
the ones who didn’t

hard conversations
thinking about the daddy 
you wish you had
made you mad
so many orphans of the living
be the daddy, don’t dream the daddy
daddy’s not coming
be the daddy you wish you had
don’t get jealous
get alive and live to the bone
of all the love you have to give
send your neighbor a prayer, a chocolate, a kiss
don’t miss the daddy, be the daddy
tell the bedtime story
we can all tuck each other in
be the daddy to the boy dying
days before you 
become the breath you barely have
be the orchestra section of another’s life

the days endless with machines, medications
necessary interrogations
interruptions of sleep by front line miracle dreams
I wear my Reverend Mother disguise
so I can stay through the night

You make me promise
they’ll honor the DNR
no matter how you beg 
whatever look of despair 
comes into your eyes

You know what you want
while you still own your mind

When mama finally arrives
you’re still alive
I kiss you every time
always the chance of good-bye

The AIDS wards
Where lifetimes were lived
in moments.
Where Death wrapped us in the mercy
of seeing life for the very first time
the immortality
of Love threading body to soul
with tenderness.
Never gone too far.