Death is not the worst of it
for I have died before —
at the hands of gangs who guzzled their courage
or boy/men who cuddled then cudgeled me to death,
at the hands of healers who electroshocked my brains
as if they were frying eggs,
and at my own hands.
So death is not the worst of it
for I have known death —
gang death on the docks, sudden death in my bedroom,
slow death in the sanitarium, and chosen death on my chaise.
Because I have known death I have thwarted it.
I learned to avoid deserted streets, to stay in on Halloween,
to ask my sisters how tricky a trick was,
to distrust all psychiatrists, and psychologists, and even M.D.s
who asked too many questions,
and to be my own best friend.
The worst of it is knowing that neither
street queen brazenness, nor middle-class discretion,
nor Wildean wit and hauteur,
neither being active nor passive, neither avoiding doctors nor
visiting them —
nothing I have done before can snatch
me from the oncoming headlight of death.
The worst of it is to stand naked before death's harsh glare
which stuns like the dread paparazzo's flash
once he's breached and betrayed my boudoir
naked before death, the policeman's spotlight
which has caught me in flagrante delicto
naked to be sun-poisoned, naked without radiation shielding.
I am reminded of the worst of it each day;
as if at Hiroshima, I see about me freshly blasted kage
the palest apparitions of former lovers, friends, and desires.
The worst of it is that it poisons not through enemies but through friends
The worst of it is that there is no catastrophic moment, no zero hour flash,
but that it lingers, lies, and insinuates itself
worse than the subtlest homophobia.
The worst of it is that I may not have seen the worst of it
that today's horror may be to tomorrow's
as a candle is to the sun, and the sun to a supernova.
But . . . I have survived the worst of it before . . .
the raids, entrapment, and pissy paddy wagons
the bashings, prison rapes, and background checks turned expose.
Each solar flare of hatred and fear
I have survived, then sifted the ashes — a prospector
No fire has destroyed my best and most malleable stuff
each time I have risen a purer gold iridescing lavender.
So, if the worst of it is a supernova, I will remember:
stars burst in death dark new worlds begin
I have risen before; I will rise again . . .
After the worst of it . . . I will rise again.
for I have died before —
at the hands of gangs who guzzled their courage
or boy/men who cuddled then cudgeled me to death,
at the hands of healers who electroshocked my brains
as if they were frying eggs,
and at my own hands.
So death is not the worst of it
for I have known death —
gang death on the docks, sudden death in my bedroom,
slow death in the sanitarium, and chosen death on my chaise.
Because I have known death I have thwarted it.
I learned to avoid deserted streets, to stay in on Halloween,
to ask my sisters how tricky a trick was,
to distrust all psychiatrists, and psychologists, and even M.D.s
who asked too many questions,
and to be my own best friend.
The worst of it is knowing that neither
street queen brazenness, nor middle-class discretion,
nor Wildean wit and hauteur,
neither being active nor passive, neither avoiding doctors nor
visiting them —
nothing I have done before can snatch
me from the oncoming headlight of death.
The worst of it is to stand naked before death's harsh glare
which stuns like the dread paparazzo's flash
once he's breached and betrayed my boudoir
naked before death, the policeman's spotlight
which has caught me in flagrante delicto
naked to be sun-poisoned, naked without radiation shielding.
I am reminded of the worst of it each day;
as if at Hiroshima, I see about me freshly blasted kage
the palest apparitions of former lovers, friends, and desires.
The worst of it is that it poisons not through enemies but through friends
The worst of it is that there is no catastrophic moment, no zero hour flash,
but that it lingers, lies, and insinuates itself
worse than the subtlest homophobia.
The worst of it is that I may not have seen the worst of it
that today's horror may be to tomorrow's
as a candle is to the sun, and the sun to a supernova.
But . . . I have survived the worst of it before . . .
the raids, entrapment, and pissy paddy wagons
the bashings, prison rapes, and background checks turned expose.
Each solar flare of hatred and fear
I have survived, then sifted the ashes — a prospector
No fire has destroyed my best and most malleable stuff
each time I have risen a purer gold iridescing lavender.
So, if the worst of it is a supernova, I will remember:
stars burst in death dark new worlds begin
I have risen before; I will rise again . . .
After the worst of it . . . I will rise again.