ribbons & bows

Three decades in,

So we calm our breath,
put pause to our fear,
and rest on the progress
of the last thirty odd years?

Do we vilify Gaëtan Dugas, the peripatetic lover?
Or David Carr, or Robert R.,
petrified, not knowing how they’re going
down?

We have made advances,
and we can breathe again (with caution).
Now it infects/affects only the willing
participants in grave sin.

But this 4H feller
ravaged Miss Kitty,
even took down the goddamned Marlboro Man.
Could Asimov have imagined?

Still.
Niggling whispers of Christian Ladies
whose closet-husbands
haven’t brought it home
                                              yet.
Still they believe it’s somehow
                                                      a fault
with a particular blame to be placed.

Putrid memories
of funeral homes and cemeteries
which refused to honor death
for fear that death was catching,
not getting the punchline.

And now
we subtext,
we remember
with clumsy, sad mnemonics:
          He’s bought a Home In Virginia
          She likes Asians In Denim Shorts
perpetuating shame
          Goddamn Right, It’s Death.

Are we so cavalier?

I am not innocent.
The unbelievable bravado
to tell my brother
it’s no longer so tragic,
unaware dear Joey was already cold.
There’s my shame.

And for every innocent,
for every victim,
for every Ryan or Elizabeth
there is a Zondi or Makgatho
and forty million more
who didn’t have the luxury
of the pretty white face
of normal,

And who left
much the same as they came
alone and quite naked
alone and afraid
alone and unsure
alone and alone.

Wrap it in quilts,
put a big red bow on it.
Just don’t stay silent.

And don’t fall for the line
that so many
were so smote
for making each other
feel good
feel loved
feel something.