Bloated babies
scream for milk
and old people wither in wheelchairs
Who am I to cry
while AIDS continues its sullen rampage
and drive-bys stalk schoolyards
teenagers flying off cliffs in search of the rainbow,
40-yearold heart attacks, 30-yearold paraplegics
But I do cry
over this lifeform in my left breast,
bequeathed by a father intent on absence;
did he fear I'd forget him?
Anger assumes blame, a wrong, a scheme
I gave up on long ago, with no regrets;
but I do cry
These tiny, aberrant cells bear me no malice;
they seek life, as I do; their rights, their desires
no less than mine
I keep my tears private, though I slip on occasion,
when my lover holds me too tight;
then I twist, away from myself, my shame
at thinking me worthy of pity
I'm strong, I can beat it, and if not,
I'll live trying.
But I do cry.
"Smiles Of a
Summer Night"
You are propped up
on a pillow, settling me
in between your satined legs at a slight, easy
slant, my back to you so you can see me
and I don't have to look;
it happens too fast but not so fast that I can't
turn my steaming head and glimpse your face,
a face I know, your lips parted to smile, eyes
scanning my disquieted body, open hands filling
with my breasts, then pushing past my belly;
your long tender fingers easy into my panties,
very easy, knowing, somehow, the grating pain
leftover from medical toxins to save a life;
I hear you say I'll never hurt you again
and again and I close my eyes, slide my legs up,
let the right one slide back down, spreading out
to the side in an unsteady arc;
at passion's height, I raise my mouth to yours
but she is gone and I am awake, with a libidinous
heartbeat, pulling my mate over to drive
my tongue down his throat.
*
Why now? Still unable to make love, dreams
become lustier and more varied.
Why this way? To spare me agony—But
you
are not the first—this
way—even
during
my twice-a-day fuck times—So—
why now? Why this way?
And you? Have I disturbed your dreams?
If not me, who? Why you? Why not?
*
Who has dreamed me? Male—Female—ashamed
in the morning—thrilled—sickened—stunned—
grabbing a crotch to calm an obstinate turn on?
At the peak of desire, what does it matter who
or what the instrument is? A beautiful prick,
beautiful fingers—toes—animate—inanimate—
as long as the throbbing bursts high enough
in the arms of one's beloved, or some more easily
accessible other ?
As If
Standard advice to
the diseased,
the lucky ones who function normally,
without notice.
Don't dwell, they say, don't let it
consume you, don't speculate—
live your life not what-if,
but as-if ....
Bizarre world, unfair, of course,
where, some moveable tally of moments
after the stunning numbness of words
and matching numbers deserts her,
a late-blossoming adult female, or her
senior-discount-hunting father or her 8th grader
discovers that lifetime is a crapshoot,
that gods are air and stone and like
a good game, that thumbs up—thumbs
down is whim and whim
is not deferrable;
neither is hope,
a burden of manners
immortally imposed,
a gesture
to tame madness
into constructs
of treatments, check-ups,
survival rates—something
to underline on your to-do
list and stick in your pocket,
whistling, functioning
normally, without notice, as if
you're still
like everyone else.
