Dedicated to was that were is, and is that struggles to be is, no thanks to Ebola.
There can be no defiance, though it tugs,
no pushing past the inertia of self,
want as you may.
There can be no pushing past the inertia of self
to hold out hands that might rather themselves be withdrawn
or curve hugs that might rather be space, or distance.
There can be no defiance; no romance.
This is not AIDS. Love
can disseminate this one.
Wait beyond the door.
Wait beyond the clutches of this relentless showman
that every minute reclaims one more oasis
of what is left of my desert,
me who was tide.
Wait beyond the door, I insist.
I have no family,
save for these beeps and hummings and tubings.
I am not bitter. Is is how it must be.
Beam them at me from beyond the door, like laser,
if you bear intimacies, or affections,
or sundry other burdens of love
you yearn to smother me in.
Beam them at me. They’ll find me.
I am not bitter. Do not despair.
I am not bitter. Here’s proof
of my excellent spirits, something
to cheer you up: There are brave astronauts
gingerly walking my moon, lest they be lost
in space, as I will be, any moment now.
Do not despair.
The softness is my eyes is not longing.
It is not desire. It does not beckon.
This softness in my eyes is farewell,
and fare thee well, beyond that door.