Today is one of those times that the words don’t flow as easy as they normally do. Usually, I think of a topic and start writing. Not today. I’ve sit and looked at a blank screen for the last half hour, knowing what I want to say but not knowing how to say it so that I don’t look like a complete ass. Or more of a complete ass than normal.

Each and every one of us have memories from our past that surface from time to time and hit us like a ton of bricks. That’s always the case with Paul and Mary Lou. We worked together back when I was in high school – they were both older than me, but they would still drag me along to parties or off to the bar after our shifts were over, and they were both kind enough to put up with an obnoxious and often stupid teenager. I looked up to both of them; Paul taught me how to cook, and Mary Lou would always come up with some way to challenge my narrow, Jesuit High School inspired, world-view.

Both Paul and Mary Lou have been dead for years now. They were infected with HIV from a manager we worked with who – despite knowing that he had HIV – engaged in sexual activities which resulted in both of them becoming HIV positive, developing AIDS, and dying.

Even after nearly twenty years it still hurts to think about it. I think of the last time I saw Paul, rail thin and pale being supported by his boyfriend Richard. I think of the last time I saw Mary Lou at Kent State. Despite her medical condition, she was studying Library Science. We talked about music that last time.

I still carry a deep seated hatred for the man who infected them, and a sense of sadness because who knows how many others suffered or died due to his actions. In a cruel twist of fate, the last time I heard this person is still alive and well, one of the lucky souls who carry HIV without ever developing AIDS. Maybe it’s irrational; it’s not like anything can change at this point, but in some small way I still hold on to the demonstrably false view that what goes around comes around.

Today’s poem is a powerful piece that is humbling in it’s directness and matter-of-fact approach to life, death, and their intersection in the hospital. Like Paul and Mary Lou, Tory Dent lived with HIV and died with AIDS.

R.I.P., My Love

Let us be apart then like the panoptical chambers in IC
patient X and patient Y, our names magic markered hurriedly on cardboard
and taped pell-mell to the sliding glass doors, “Mary”, “Donald”, “Tory”;
an indication that our presence there would prove beyond temporary, like snow flurry.
Our health might be regained if aggressive medical action were taken, or despite
these best efforts, lost like missing children in the brambles of poor fortune.
The suffering of another’s I can only envision through the mimesis of my own,
the alarming monitor next door in lieu of a heartbeat signifying cardiac arrest,
prompts a scurry of interns and nurses, their urgent footsteps to which
I listen, inert and prostrate, as if subject to the ground tremors of
a herd of buffalo or horses, just a blur in the parched and post-nuclear distance.
I listen, perhaps the way the wounded will listen to the continuing war,
so different sounding than before, the assault of noise now deflected against
consciousness rather than serving as motivation for patriotism and targets.
Like fistfuls of dirt loaded with pebbles and rocks thrown at my front door,
I knew that the footsteps would soon be running to me also.
The blood pressure cuff swaddled around my arm pumped in its diastolic state
independently like an iced organ ready for transplant
as I witnessed with one circular rove of my eyes my body now dissected
into television sets, like one of those asymmetrical structures
that serves as a model for a molecular unity in elementary science classes.
And the plastic bags of IV fluids that hung above me, a Miró-like mobile or iconic toy
for an infant’s amusement, measured the passing of time by virtue of their depletion.
Sometimes I could count almost five and then seven swinging vaguely above me at 4 am.
I remember the first, hand-held high above me when I arrived via ambulance at the ER,
the gurney accelerating as a voice exclaims on the color of my hands “they’re blue!”.
Another voice (deeper) virtually yells out into the chaos that she can’t get a pulse.
Several pairs of scissors begin simultaneously to cut off my clothes, their shears
working their way upward like army ants from pant cuff and shirt-sleeve,
a formulaic move for the ER staff which, despite its routine, still retains
a sense of impromptu in the hurriedness of the cutting both deft and crude,
in the sound of their increased breathing, of their efforts intensified by my blood
pressure dropping, the numbers shouted out as if into night fog and ocean.
It’s not a lack of professionalism but the wager of emotional investment that I feel.
One attendant, losing her aplomb for a moment, can’t contain herself from remarking
(as if I’m already post-mortem) on what a great bra I have;
“Stretch lace demi-cup, Victoria’s Secret,” I respond politely in my head.
In turn, when they put the oxygen tube into my nose I thought immediately
of Ali McGraw on her death bed in Love Story and how good she looked in one.
And then the catheter where I pissed continually into a bottle like a paraplegic
let me in on the male fear of castration
my focus centered entirely on that tube, its vulnerable rigging
which I held onto tenderly throughout the night like something dying
against my thigh or something birthing. I held on though the IV in my forearm
overextended with a kind of pleading, the needle hooked deep into a mainstream vein
the way in deep sea fishing lines are cast into the darkest water,
my body thrashing about in the riverweed of its fluids.
The translucent infrastructure of IVs and oxygen tubes superimposed itself upon me
like a body double, more virulent and cold, like Leda pinned and broken by her swan,
like the abandoned and organ-failed regarding its superior soul ascend.
So completely and successfully reconfigured within its technological construct
my body proper no longer existed, my vital signs highlighted in neon
preceded the spiraling vortex of my interiority,
the part of me people will say later that that’s what they loved
when they roam about in the cramped rare book library of their memory
for a couple of minutes and think of “Tory”.
Movement can only be accounted in shadows, Virilio informs us,
the reconciliation of oneself in one’s disappearance.
An anachronistic sundial, I turn my profile
and the fluorescence falls unfractured, unmediated onto the postmodern tenebrism
of absence against absence, my quickened inhalations against my backless gown.
My love for you, my love, for my friends, untethers and floats,
snaps apart and off me like the I.V. tubes and monitor wires
the flailed arms of an octopus unfolding without gravity,
as I reach up in a Frankensteinian effort to shut off my monitors,
the constant alarming of the human prototype my own body keeps rejecting,
while death moves closer, a benign presence.
It stands respectfully just outside the perimeters of my life
and adjusts itself the way the supervising nurse did the monitor perimeters
to suit my declining vital signs so I could get some sleep.
I felt a relationship with death, a communication, it was more familiar
than I ever imagined, what I had always returned to as the sign of me, the self
we attribute to the mysterious and perfectly ordered Romantic notion of origin.
What I’m trying to say is that it was not foreign. It was not foreign,
but it was not a homecoming either.
There was no god, no other land, no beyond;
no amber, no amethyst, no avatar.
But there was a suspension, there was an adieu to recognition
to the shoes of those I love, like Van Gogh’s, a pair but alone
the voices of loved ones, their tones, their intonations, like circulation,
closed-circuited but effective.
There was a listless but clear-thinking comfort that into my own eyes
I would go, although not “into” in the Bachelardian sense
which implies diminishment; there was none of that.
It was just the opposite: expansion but without a pioneer’s vision.
What we regard as the “self” extended itself, but I wouldn’t say in a winged way,
over the Bosch-like landscape of brutal interactions
and physical pain and car alarms and the eternal drilling of disappointment
the exigent descendence of everyday that everyday you peer down or up
its daunting staircase, nauseous with vertigo
gathering like straw the rudimentary characteristics of courage, gumption, innovation
and faking it to the hilt like a hilarious onslaught of sham orgasms.
Transcendence might be the term Emerson would lend it.
What I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t lonely.

— Tory Dent