Ros and Guild, 1994

Hyacinthus opens sky for ICU bedders
with the sky bloodied a blue so blue.
We pledge in Latin our mutated love:
‘carinii pneumonia …
Kaposi’s sarcoma …
Mycobacterium avium …”
My arm vines your nape for a kiss;
you scratch a furtive glance at the IV pole.
We make love holding hands instead—
Latin is now our embrace.
And love—this bright, corpuscular love—
is the endless despair of never coming back.
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