by Rafael Campo

    I

    Admitted to the hospital again.

    The second bout¹ of pneumocystis back

    In January almost killed him； then，

    He'd sworn to us he'd die at home.  He baked

    Us cookies， which the student wouldn't eat，

    Before he left——the kitchen on 5A

    Is small， but serviceable and neat.

    He told me stories： Richard Gere was gay

    And sleeping with a friend if his， and AIDS

    Was an elaborate conspiracy²

    Effected by the government.  He stayed

    Four months. He lost his sight to CMV.

    II

    One day， I drew his blood， and while I did

    He laughed， and said I was his girlfriend now，

    His blood-brother.  "Vampire-slut，" he cried，

    "You'll make me live forever！" Wrinkled brows

    Were all I managed in reply.  I know

    I'm drowning in his blood， his purple blood.

    I filled my seven tubes； the warmth was slow

    To leave them， pressed inside my palm.  I'm sad

    Because he doesn't see my face.  Because

    I can't identify with him.  I hate

    The fact that he's my age， and that across

    My skin he's there， my blood-brother， my mate.

    III

    He said I was too nice， and after all

    If Jodie Foster was a lesbian，

    Then doctors could be queer.  Residual³

    Guilts tingled⁴ down my spine⁵.  "OK， I'm done，"

    I said as I withdrew the needle from

    His back， and pressed.  The CSF was clear；

    I never answered him.  That spot was framed

    In sterile⁶， paper drapes.  He was so near

    Death， telling him seemed pointless.  Then， he died.

    Unrecognizable to anyone

    But me， he left my needles deep inside

    His joking heart.  An autopsy⁷ was done.

    IV

    I'd read to him at night. His horoscope，

    The New York Times， The Advocate；

    Some lines by Richard Howard gave us hope.

    A quiet hospital is infinite，

    The polished， ice-white floors， the darkened halls

    That lead to almost anywhere， to death

    Or ghostly， lighted Coke machines.  I call

    To him one night， at home， asleep.  His breath，

    I dreamed， had filled my lungs——his lips， my lips

    Had touched.  I felt as though I'd touched a shrine⁸.

    Not disrespectfully， but in some lapse⁹

    Of concentration.  In a mirror shines

    The distant moon.

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