for Martin Shkreli
When the pneumonia rocked your body in waves
I rocked with you, seasick and nauseous. I vomited
bile into your bed-pan and the nurse ushered me out,
called your immune system depressed. You said over
Who Wants to be a Millionaire reruns, let’s count my virus,
& you warned, ticking off on your fingers, we’ll be counting
forever. Meredith Vieira had no answers. Nurses
had pills, IVs. And you lived. But it was contractual.
Wheelbarrows of antivirals that you hid
from your roommates, bottles tucked under
the kitchen sink and behind Clorox and cleaning supplies—
where they’d never find them. When you were drunk
you’d threaten to uncap that Clorox. There is no
metaphor for this. Instead, I’d tuck you into bed.
I’d pet the pills down your throat. I’d kiss your lips
and whisper missions into the hollow of your body.
Now, after years, we count your virus on one hand.
There is no hollow to your body.
You say I can’t even eat anymore.
You say I’m filled to brim with gold.