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I stopped my list of dead boys at number 58
after John died in 97. Before visiting him, I called
the 3rd floor nurses’ station at Bailey Boushay
to check if his family was there.
AIDS left my friend unable to talk or eat,
thrush coated his tongue. He used a small
writing tablet to communicate. I climbed
into his bed and held his frail body,
tears welled in his eyes, I caressed his face,
wiped his mouth; he welcomed my touch,
but he grew agitated so they strapped him
to the bed, put mittens on his hands
prevention to keep the feeding tube intact
with its liquid concoction of sustenance and
medications. After the funeral, at home crying
on the edge of my bed he sat next to me,
but no one was there. I miss how we held
each other, we were lonely and scared.
Is there a dance-floor where you are now?
Are angels’ gender-less?