AIDS in the ‘90s
Of cemeteries I note
stones large as mirrors
but also graves the size
of toy trucks. Pinwheels
dialed by the wind.
Wreckage of spring.
How I wait among
objects fastened to the wall.
Cartons of gloves and a metal box,
the rain-cold plunk of sharps.
Above the door a nurse has taped
a single maple leaf in pencil,
the pewter-gray of longing
to be recognized just once.
Who would believe a quilt
could shroud a stadium
or a class reunion shrink
so soon? I am shut away
with the old and very young,
sunlight kneeling on the bare
floor while tea steams,
stretching its question mark
to nothingness.
I could call it a holiday,
cards in the mail, and
government checks.
Fruit accumulates
for which I have no
appetite, a book falling
open to a page
blank as tissue drawn over
an exam table. If I dress
and look back, someone has risen
from the snow and has imprinted
buds at the height of the shoulders
where wings might sprout.
On Sunday afternoons, Laura English teaches writing to people from all walks of life. She lives in Lancaster County, PA, with her husband and four sons.