Years ago
now
I walked
among
the dying.
I was
already dead.
I was
a shroud
of skin
wrapped
around bones
no one
could touch.
This is
one version
of what
it means
to be
dead.
Around me,
often circling,
teetering
like metal
candelabra
angels,
were
too plenty
of the others
dying, who
in the moment
had outlived
me. Mostly
middle-aged
gay men
dying
into
their shadows.
We all walked
for miles,
for each other,
for liberation,
for purification,
for healing, for life.
The walks began
and ended
with swan boats
in the Boston
Public
Garden.
By the time
I crossed
the bridge
at the finish
line, under
a rainbow
of tethered
balloons,
more among me
were that many
steps closer
to death,
the air
exhausted
in their
lungs
labored
further
heaving,
sighing,
some pulsing
into oxygen
masks
while seated
in wheelchairs,
escorted
by lovers
and friends,
some who
would not
be
permitted
to witness
their beloved’s
final
grasps
for air
before
the lights
blew out
behind
their eyes.
But this day,
sunlight.
Every AIDS walk,
sunlight.
We would walk
into the sun
for miles
beaming
before
together
we
would burn
our skin
always
like flash
paper
ready
to combust.
