HOMO SUM
With yellow strain around his eyes,
The young man turned to me and cried,
"My friend tried suicide!
He said he's do it, but I didn't buy it.
I laughed and went out for a coke and fries.
While I was out, he took a bunch of pills
that I'd left on the shelf.
Oh, God, I couldn't call the cops;
I took him to the hospital myself!"
He sat to weep
And I sat down by him
And gently held his shoulder and his hand.
"How is he now?" I asked.
He crumpled, letting tears fall on my jacket,
And sobbed, "The worst part was,
I had to wait 'til he was out,
Or he'd have fought me when I tried to move him.
I'd never tried to pick him up before,
And he was heavy, and I had to drag him.
We aren't gay, and so I'd never touched him,
except to shake his hand.
He was so . . . heavy."
I stroked his hair, and rocked him in my arms,
And touched his forehead lightly with my lips,
And wished protection for him from more harm.
We aren't gay.
The words hung there,
Victims of a vigilante culture.
My throat constricted and my eyes filled, too;
I held him tightly as he sat and cried.
I wondered just how long a time he'd spend
Before he'd come to terms with why his friend
Had tried the suicide. |
