the creeping flame of the life-threatening virus flanked my 50th july / as if to seal the permanent loss of my monthly blood. / it stole my taste / parched my openings / engorged the flame / heat, rage / a monster fire burning
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Opening the door, I slide behind the big steering wheel of the old pickup. The ‘63 Chevy didn't come with power steering, so the steering wheel is huge. The heavy steel door closes with a loud creak. All the windows make for a fishbowl with me on display.
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Plants whimper green panic in the yard.
So hot the breeze is dangerous and insects show up in new places
beetles I’ve never seen upside down in the living room
when they felled our bodies
with an ax of nine hundred edges
we became a petrified forest
My spikes under your skin. My fingers in your nerves. Your skin twitching and tightening against mine. Me cackling, grinning, growling into your ear, sighing, moaning, strutting to get your bottle of water.
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I spent much of my time on the AIDS ward asking patients “What do you want? What do you need?” and so very often the answer was “I just want to go home,” which was something I was able to do at the end of every shift, walk home through the Mission District, to my boyfriend, my photos, my books, my things, my stuff.
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