I.
Once.
That’s how often.
And when the counselor starts asking me
and asking me
about my shit and how often I get off--
I’m real with her, you know?
I tell her I’m shooting
three four five times a day.
And I hate it when
they ask me how I got the HIV.
From where I’m sitting all cranked up
on jack and meth,
it don’t matter how,
because all it takes is once.
II.
Not once. Not one time.
I think about all the times I spread my legs
(don’t even smile at this part),
I think about all the times
I needed some grocery money and
I don’t even think I thought
the word condom once.
Not even remotely did I think
the word condom.
But I did think about Brewster
and I thought about being very hungry
back then. I remember my kids
staying at my sister’s house in Queens
and I needed carfare.
III.
Fair? Me, it was back in '84
before they even had a test--
so I happen to have a relative working at Metropolitan Hospital.
She said I was really at risk
from the way I was living.
I already had some Hepatitis and the TB germ in me.
So, I got the test.
When the doctor came in he didn’t
have to say anything
because I could
just tell.
He said to me
get your house in order,
you have 5 years left to live.
IV.
Live? Kill the motherfuckers man,
that is all I have to say to you today.
Somebody gave me this fucking virus
and I am gonna give it right back
worse than I got it, I swear.
$280 is what I get.
My AZT cost me $1300 a month.
Before, they had me on 4000 milligrams of that shit--
what do they know? $280 a month.
So, my case manager wants to know am I married?
Yeah, I tell her, I’m married,
I’m married to this fucking virus.
What? Like I'm supposed to sit home
And clip coupons?
V.
Oh, me and Lonnie
we been married forever.
Before my mother died, must be seven years.
And still, you know, I never wanted any babies
but when little Eddie came along
I just started to love him cause he was so small
but then he got so sick. At first,
I thought he was gonna die
but he held on. Then, they told us
Little Eddie had AIDS.
It was a long time for it to sink in
that I was sick, too.
Course me and Lonnie, we never talked about anything
and I just hope I die before my baby.
VI.
Baby, it is nuts.
See, I work at DAS,
that’s the Division of AIDS Services,
and my clients they are all HIV+, and they
sit in front of me.
You know, it’s strange, but I don't feel anything for them.
They disintegrate right in front of me
and eventually, you know, they die.
I take out their folder and
I stamp it CASE CLOSED.
But when I go home and I watch Pedro on my soap opera
and HE dies,
I cry. I really feel it. I mean, I get real sad.
I really feel.
VII.
Feels like a car accident, 27 years old
with no one at the wheel.
The instant of the decision
to hang up on them
or invite them up for a drink.
There’s something terribly hard and wrong
about 3 a.m. when the bleach bottle
is empty and the syringe is full.
I keep thinking I can document my way
out of AIDS,
write back the hands of time,
to that moment Before,
when all I had to worry about
was whether the mango was ripe.
Polly Weiss writes poems and short stories which she performs in theaters, cafes, bars, and school buildings throughout the United States. She resides with her partner, teenage daughter, three cats, and leopard gecko in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where she facilitates anti-oppression workshops.
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