Al Smith
Tribal Survival

A part of me wanted to shed a tear,
But my well of feeling was so deep
It felt more like mourning’s nadir.
Profound feelings managed to seep
To the depths of my weary soul.
I was reading stories of long-term
Survivors of the HIV and AIDS toll.
They coped while others became infirm,
And tended them until they expired.
The survivors living on to become
Victims themselves, overwhelmed and tired.
In some cases getting to be scum,
Too sick to work, but too healthy to perish;
Ending up in medical and financial limbo.
In an effort to avoid more nightmarish
Emotional trauma, they isolated in woe.
Still living and struggling to adjust,
In trying to keep it all together,
Some days it’s been a case of just
Putting one foot in front of the other.
But it’s not over until the fat lady sings.
Disappointment, joy, loss, love, despair,
Boredom, hope and gratefulness are fillings
For their individual stories of life’s scare.
In a few cases older men have connected.
Ultimately, who will be the last man standing;
The last man to tell his tale, respected
For enduring to the final disbanding?

Al Smith tested positive for HIV in 1988. He lives in San Diego, California.

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Vernita Hall
I Knew a Man

for Gregory

I knew a man
who could charm the coin from Charon’s hand
or Midas’s, too, squeeze lemonade from sand,
hula rings like Saturn, drum thunder like Jupiter
whenever he laughed, and he laughed some.

I knew a man
who could dance on the head of a pin
or the top of a bar. Around the pole he’d spin
like a compass needle. His word—true north.
He never called the shots—they begged to come.

This man, my friend,
could thread a needle with a baseball bat,
eclipse the sun, or wheedle cream from an alley cat.
Always top dog, the black elephant in the room,
he never took a back seat lest he throned it, Paul Bunyan-esque.

The man I knew
could spin a yarn like Rumpelstiltskin
or negotiate extra wishes from a jinn.
His laser eyes could weep a secret out from a stone.
He walked with Jesus upon the waters, two abreast.

Did you know my friend?
He was the father of invention—and a muthuh, too.
Switched the Grim Reaper gay, broke the back of convention.
He rose well-heeled, sprinkled motherwit like seed,
his tongue, oil-slick. He could listen through the tips of his toes.

When Gabriel sounds
that trumpet for the day of rest
New Orleans-style, he’ll strut at the head of the blessed,
arm-in-arm with Peter and Michael, too.
He’ll be leading the band, prompting them their cue,
this man I knew.

A Rosemont College MFA, Vernita Hall placed second in American Literary Review’s Creative Nonfiction Contest; was a finalist for the Cutthroat Nonfiction, Rita Dove, Paumanok, and Atlanta Review Poetry Awards; a semi-finalist in the Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest and Ruminate’s VanderMey Nonfiction Prize. The Hitchhiking Robot Learns About Philadelphians won the 2016 Moonstone Chapbook Contest (judge Afaa Michael Weaver). She serves on the poetry review board of Philadelphia Stories. Poetry and essays appeared or are forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Philadelphia Stories, Referential, Mezzo Cammin, Whirlwind, Canary, African American Review, Snapdragon, Grayson Books anthology Forgotten Women, and five other anthologies.

SUBMIT to the HIV Here & Now poem-a-day countdown to World AIDS Day 2017 via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you want to support the mission and work of HIV Here & Now, consider making a tax-deductible contribution to Indolent Arts Foundation, a 501(c)(3) charity.

Join our mailing list to receive news, updates, and special offers from Indolent Books, the publisher of HIV Here & Now.