F Cade Swanson

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F Cade Swanson

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HIV & COVID POEMS

Fullness


First published in Day Without Art 30. Pandemonium Press. December 2019

Republished in But You Don't Look Sick: The Real Life Adventures of Fibro Bitches, Lupus Warriors, and Other Superheroes Battling Invisible Illness. Indie Blu(e) Publishing. November 2021.


For years after I came out

my mother would ask me if I was sick.

"You're too skinny," she would say.

It was an accusation more than an observation.

But my gaunt appearance

was not due to the sickness she imagined.


And while my gay drove me to be lean,

as if my self-doubt consumed all of the nourishment 

my body needed,

it would be years before the virus she feared I had

contracted

would appear

unexpected

in my no-longer gaunt body.


Self-doubt had been replaced by comfort.

Fullness of parenting

Fullness of relationship.

Comfort opened up new vulnerabilities.


Unknowingly

I let HIV in, 

delivered in a package of kindness and warmth,

an extra ingredient in a meal of validation.

I had eaten too much.


First step: confession.

I bring my husband to get tested.

Negative.

I tell no one else.

Unsure if I could deal with their reaction.

Shame Pity. Shock. Disgust.

Rejection.


Next step: acknowledgement.

It takes me more than a year to go on meds.

I was not ready to accept my new reality.

I was not ready to have my kids find my pills

and ask what's wrong.

Afraid of

"you look sick,"

the words my mom used to say to me.

Afraid of dying.


Final step: acceptance.

And so now I lift weights

And eat lots

And take my meds with meals as prescribed

And worry about bone density and kidney function

And cholesterol levels.

And worry about my kids.


And while the meds keep the virus in check

Undetectable

I secretly work to keep my illness

Undetectable.


Still afraid perhaps of being too comfortable

Or too full

Because that didn't work out so well last time.



Conversations on Instagram


First published by HIV Here & Now Poem-a-Day Project for National Poetry Month 2020, Indolent Books, April 18, 2020

Republished in Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing, The Grief Series: Anger. Issue 7.2, Summer 2021.


“We had a class on that,” he says. 

A response to my suggestion 

that he read David Feinberg, 

maybe learn the term “AIDS clone.”


“Personal narratives are more powerful than history books,” I say. 

Maybe hoping that he’d ask me about my story. 

Maybe hoping that he’d read other stories. 

Build bridges among the dead, the survivors, and those who came later.


I consider myself a survivor. 

I consider myself a witness. 

Even when looking was too hard to register 

Or the world refused to see us 

Living 

Loving 

Caring 

Dying.


Even though HIV still runs through my veins.


I want him to know of a time 

when queer women and dykes and lesbians 

seemed to be the only ones who could see, 

maternal hands when our own mothers rejected us, 

holding us, wiping our tears, cleaning up our filth.


“They cared for us when no one else would,” 

I tell him. 

“We owe them so much.”


I want him to know of a time 

When fags and queens and gay men and fairies 

Took to the streets, 

Demanding to be seen and heard and valued and acknowledged. 

Demanding humanity and decency.


“We were so powerful,” 

I tell him. 

“Queer warriors fighting for one another.”


I pause.


“I think I saw an article on that,” he replies.


I pause.


And the moment is gone.


When COVID first started

 

First published by HIV Here & Now Poem-a-Day for World AIDS Day 2020, Indolent Books, 

November 24, 2020


When COVID first started

and the wave of fear erupted

I got a lot of questions.


Was this like the early days of HIV?


I was annoyed.

My responses were measured.

I was quick to mention 

this was not the same.


With this virus,

I offered,

people cared.

COVID stigma wasn’t a thing,

at least in the beginning.

No “you were asking for it.”

Everyone has a grandparent.


With this virus,

the resources to fight the pandemic

appeared quickly,

at least at the start.


And then it happened.

This government

poked fun at those who sought to protect themselves

undermined science

emasculated men who chose to care for themselves 

and others

suggested maybe it was okay to let grandma die,

to let those who are vulnerable die.


And so here we are:

hospitals filled with people gasping for air

who use their last breath

to convince themselves COVID isn’t real.


So, no, this is not like the early days of AIDS

when people turned away

and shunned us

and refused to see or help us

because they thought 

we deserved to die.


This time,

it’s a new kind of turning away,

as people die.

The shunning is of the truth,

a violent chorus of denial

conducted by small men 

in red caps.


After starting HIV Meds


Finalist in Yolk Literary poetry contest Flash-Fried 2.0. Sept 17, 2020.


After starting HIV meds,

mosquitos have no interest in my blood.

I guess I should be glad.

How self consumed I must be

to see it as rejection.



Running


First published by HIV Here & Now Poem-a-Day Project for National Poetry Month 2020, 

Indolent Books, April 30, 2020


Sometimes I wonder
If my friends who died
If my lovers who died
Would be angry with me.


If the grief I felt for them
If the rage we shared
Is somehow diminished
By my catching this disease.


Back then it felt
Inevitable
That I would catch HIV
Or that it would catch me
No matter how fast I tried to run.


Dead by thirty
I was sure.
Or maybe twenty-five.
Strong legs surely couldn’t outrun my fate.


And yet
Somehow
(and I don’t know how)
I was spared.


And so I moved.
Grew up further.
Married.
Had kids.


Broke through the anger
Broke through the fear
Found comfort.
Fullness.


And then
Just as life slowed my pace
And happiness allowed me to take a breath
I stopped running.


Just slow enough
Just long enough
Just careless enough
For HIV to
(finally)
catch me.


Breakfast


First published by HIV Here & Now Poem-a-Day Project for National Poetry Month 2020, 

Indolent Books, April 28, 2020


The dogs wake me before my alarm,
Wet nosed greetings in my face.
I slip on my pants
and find my shoes.


We walk the block before our neighbors are up;
Morning is best time of the day.
Birds sing, trees rustle.
The sun peeks out from behind the evergreens.
Sometimes we see an eagle.


The dogs and I return home as the kids are waking up.
It’s time for me to make breakfast.


Jade likes a toasted English Muffin with a fried egg
where the yolk is just soft enough to run,
but hard enough not to drip all over her hands and nails.


Noah always has oatmeal,
with blueberries if we have them.
Jaylen has eggs with toast.
We call them dippy eggs.


My meds are to be taken with a 400 calorie meal,
so I make myself two eggs
with a slice of turkey.
I wash down my pills with coffee,
a chaser of probiotics and vitamins,
and a protein shake.


When I first got my HIV diagnosis,
It was winter.
Jade was two years old
Jaylen was six
And we hadn’t yet met Noah.
I was overwhelmed.


Feelings of shame and guilt
soaked deep into my bones
like the Seattle rain that winter.
I could not get warm.
I could not get dry.
I did not take pills with breakfast.


Worried about getting sick,
I worried more about my kids finding out I was sick.
Afraid of dying,
but more afraid my kids would think I was going to die.
I did not want to leave them,
but mostly needed to assure them I would stay.


And so breakfast became our routine,
A communion of love,
a way to start our day.
Together.


One where my children taught me
How to love myself again,
To warm back up
And dry back out
Over toasted bread, eggs and oatmeal.
One where I showed them I am still here.


For them,
Because of them,
And thanks to them.
I am still here.



The first time I watched a man die of AIDS

 

First published by HIV Here & Now Poem-a-Day Project for National Poetry Month 2020, 

Indolent Books, April 15, 2020


The first time I watched a man die of AIDS

Was when I worked in Colonial Williamsburg.

Tourists joked that my earrings weren’t period appropriate

And I complained a lot about the unnatural fabrics in my costume.

Cold showers couldn’t stop my sweat in the summer heat of Virginia.

I would step out of the shower, unable to dry off, and drape my wet arms

in polyester blends meant to look authentic, 

my sweaty body suffocating beneath white knee socks under colonial blue three quarter pants, 

a starched neckerchief tucked into a white shirt, 

and a blue polyester vest on top of that. 


It was so hot. And everything about that outfit—and that summer-- was so contrived.


I saw him collapse.

The funny homosexual with the thinning long hair

That he pulled back away from his sad face 

To expose his beautiful and weathered blue eyes.

The eyes I tried to avoid looking at.

(I was not ready to see my reflection in those eyes).

He carried his weight in his middle and wore his pants too tight.


I saw him collapse.

I had tried to avoid him in general, 

Afraid of guilt by association as I worked my way 

Through my heavy layers of self loathing.

My gay bled through them like the sweat under my outfit,

Seeping out and turning the waist of my pants dark, 

And the crotch,

And the parts of my vest beneath my armpits. 


I assumed it was heatstroke, but moments later he was gone. 

His body cleared away

(we had tables waiting)



When I look in the mirror


First published in Ailment: Chronicles of Illness Narratives, Volume One, Mar 2020


I think of how we used to get up in the mornings, 

How I’d watch you standing in the mirror, 

Watch you watch yourself


“I look skinny,” you’d say.

I'd catch you running your hands 

over your growing arms and chest, 

like a man going through puberty again.  


After years of wasting away

Your body was taunting you with renewal, 

just when you had made peace with letting go. 


I'd catch you watching yourself,

Tracing your pecs and shoulders.

Remembering the strong man’s body you had built up 

before you got sick.


Combination therapy brought you back to life

A beautiful shell of growing muscles and tissue.


But so much of you had already died.


You had said your good-byes 

And you were ready to let go.


I wanted you to hang on.

Or, I wanted to hang on to you.

I couldn’t let you go. 

I had to let you go.


And then you were gone. 


For years my mother would ask me if I was sick.
When she watched me in the mirror.


“You’re too skinny,” she would say.
An accusation more than an observation.
All I saw was that I never had arms or shoulders like yours.
 

When I look in the mirror now
And search for frailty
for traces of the sickness my mom accused me of,
the one that killed you,
even as your body’s renewal masked your illness,
I think of you.


And of the days I spent watching you

Watch yourself

In the mirror.



The Virus You Gave Me


First published in Stonewall's Legacy: A Poetry Anthology. Local Gems Poetry Press, June 2019.


The virus you gave me

Which I thought might kill me

Was delivered with such care and kindness

That it was hard to determine if you

were giving me life,

replacing my sadness with love

Or giving me death

And replacing my sadness with fear.


Either way

I know you were afraid to be alone.

And while giving me your virus connected us

Forever

It also destroyed us.

And we're just left with the virus

To remind us how connected we once were.




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