In 1985, HIV Tests Take 2 to 6 Weeks to Result
And still, buses run on time,
baristas brew coffee at 6am,
dogs bark for morning walks,
congressmen pull up their socks.
Baristas brew coffee at 6am,
not asking if I slept last night, while
congressmen pull up their socks
at the edges of their holy beds.
Not asking if I slept last night,
the barista pours me a red eye.
At the edges of warm beds,
senators dress for work. While
the barista pours me a red eye,
I stare out the snow-rimmed window.
Senators dress for work,
introducing bills, ignoring an epidemic.
I stare out the snow-rimmed window,
the next two weeks of life paused.
Introducing bills ignoring an epidemic,
respectability politics take over.
The next two weeks of life paused,
wondering who will go to my funeral while
respectability politics take over.
I take pride in not being respectable,
wondering who will go to my funeral while
dogs bark for 7am walks.
I take pride in not being respectable,
and, still, buses run on time.
The Storm God
Marlboros and PBR stained his breath,
the first man I ever kissed.
I conflated danger with thrill,
with his five o’clock shadow,
how he drank dark roast black
to stay up for his night shift
and rotgut liquor to sleep after.
Uppers and downers ruled his life
and I rode with him, under him.
His apartment smelled
of floor beer and guttered incense.
He blazed candles
to keep night terrors at bay;
I watched the flames
dance on his nude body
as he passed out,
Endymion beside me.
In his sleep,
exaltation.
In his waking,
how he brought the thunder.
I only worship sun gods now.
Joshua Barnes lives in Chicago with his husband. He is the author of the chapbook Dressed for the Gods from Ghost City Press. His poetry has also appeared in &Change, Snowflake Magazine, Olney Magazine, Impossible Archetype, and Philadelphia Stories. When not writing, he can be found reading poetry, horror fiction, and comic books and perfecting his handstands. He is on Instagram @jsb1800