Don’t wave your sanitized rainbow at me. I am a child of the ’80s. I remember our brothers dying in hospital beds alone, partners kept out in waiting rooms like strangers,
Though each year's spring may be the last for us, We take our comfort driving side by side, And opt to greet each season without fuss As we have done for decades, groom and bride.
That this desire, this guilt-sway of your hips, was put in its proper place among the centuries, the galaxies, among all those who have ever died. Strikingly alive.
Each week falling like a plodding foot, though we’d have sworn there were more than 52 in that burgeoning deck. We tried shoring up the months, yet still they’d bleed into each other:
