Blameless--a poem

A first draft:

Blameless

The starlings are black as midnight, black
as the Tuesdays Ex’ed on my calendar that say
Hello. I am your oncologist.

What a word that is.

My on-call ogist. Always there? No, I think
not. My oncologist. Someone who understands
the difference between an oncogene and a tumor
suppressor gene.

Does it matter, really?

Biology 101, Dr. Caldwell is
calling. Tell me about control. Tell me about
The lack of it. Is there really a difference
between saying YES to the wrong thing, and
being unable to say NO to to wrong thing?

We call it cancer, but really, it’s rape.

The premise is the same. “Risky behaviors”
are metaphors for blaming the victim for something
ugly. Something we don’t want to discuss. When we are
a straight woman, we say “Victim.” When we are a gay
man we say, “Unprotected.” As if you deserve this.

Are there stigmas for touching an unwashed doorknob? No?

Shall we call the people who do so “whores” who get
what they deserve? No? I have fucked many times
without protection. Am I a whore

for being able to hide it? I don’t have the virus. What

makes me different? My ability to lie on white sheets
without blame?
To claim a virtue I don’t really possess? I am no better
than the man in line before me, who fucked ONCE
without a rubber, just once—

And his whole life is defeated. And his whole
life is shit. Will he find a partner with the same
strain that he carries? Not likely. Just another
barrier to disgusting gay sex.

Well FUCK that. I have seen the last moments
dripping down. I’ve seen the sores, the cancers,
the Holy Shit This Hurts. I have witnessed it.
I have lived it. I do not lecture.

I am only luckier. Nothing more.

We had the same man, Lynn and I.
He in the morning, me in the afternoon.
And is he to blame for what happens?
If I am infected, no. If he is? Ask
the Red Cross. Who is barred from donating?

We call out the names of our dead ones
too soon. Twenty years or more, they can live
if they can only afford. So what makes me different?
We both get bent over a sofa and love it. We both

receive the offering with Hallelujahs. He, in his glory,
me up something else. Where is the
difference? Where? Grab my hair
and make me scream your name. I love it.

And Patrick, what does he love? The same damned thing.
Fuck him hard, he loves it, I love it. And yet—
He is a whore, I am not.
He is a pervert, I am not.
He deserves it, I do not.

The virus unravels the mystery of our DNA. Is your
Y chromosome so different than my double-X?
Am I inherently better? Am I, unlike you,
blameless?

To society, I am a victim, you are
a sinner. I am normal, you are
a perversion of nature. And all about where
some asshole puts his dick. As if

I am a child, approaching the West Wind
in fear, afraid more than a man
would be. It takes away from me.
It diminishes me. I am more of myself

than this.

Rest in peace, my love.

Rest.

That's incredibly good, and painful, and honest.

Really really good, and I know what's good.

Nothing I've written hits this hard, or this eloquently.

Thank you.

It's hard to deal with it. I could probably be more eloquent, but not now. It just kills me that his Dad wouldn't see him, even at the end, for something a woman could have done a hundred times, without fault.

I don't understand it. I never will.

I hate the haters.

He lost it the first time when he embraced bigotry and turned it against his own son. He lost it the second time when he lost his son. :(

I hope he realizes someday all of what he lost and how much of it was his own fault.

It is horrible and a shame that your friend had to suffer through that in addition to everything else. x(

Your poem is a beautiful tribute. :loveya:

I know you understand. :hug:

What kills me more than anything is that Patrick didn't do anything that his Dad would have blamed him for--if he'd been a woman. The fact that he was a man made it different, somehow.

I don't understand it. I never will.

:cry:

I cannot imagine your pain. I read your response to Peggy. Your words are raw yet .... I don't know what to say. You touched my heart.

I'm sorry for your loss, sorry for all the losses.

:hug:

aA
kesha

:wow:

That is amazing! :applause:

Weaving themes in a poem this long, and mentioning so many different issues in passing so well and with such a subtle touch takes talent and practice. If this is a draft then I am really looking forward to seeing what your final will look like. :)