March #45 : Verse: Terminal Girl - by River Huston

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Table of Contents

Dog Days in Malibu

Breathless

Born in Flames

Gay Guru

Soldier of Fortune

Rare Gem

Marathon Man

On the Waterfront

Race With the Angels

Mean Streets

S.O.S.

To the Editor

Ticket to Ride

Death by Disclosure

Slip Off the Old Block

Poster of the Month: Ruff Times

FYI

Say What

HIV in the Hood

No Brownie Points

Grades for AIDS

French Twist

Southern Discomfort

Sister Act Up

Sister Act Up

POZ Biz

POZarazzi: Call It a Day

Verse: Terminal Girl

Primary Concerns

Obits

Naming Names

Fast Company

Junk Mail

Life After Legacy

Spin Doctors

PWAs’ Best Friend

What’s Up, Doc?

HIV’s Incredible Endgame

The ABCs of Baby AZT

Hit the Dirt

Selling Sustiva

Publish or Perish

Best of the Rest

Where to Find It

What a Waste

Full Disclosure

People, Their Pets and Pet Peeves

Parental Guidance

Aunt Evelyn's Letters



Most Popular Lessons

The HIV Life Cycle

Shingles

Herpes Simplex Virus

Syphilis & Neurosyphilis

Treatments for Opportunistic Infections (OIs)

What is AIDS & HIV?

Hepatitis & HIV


email print

March 1999

Verse: Terminal Girl

by River Huston

“That dress fits you well,”
you say,
as you sculpt my right breast
in the earth
with feet
no nails.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying
you look so good in that dress.”

Wet confession
a blur of preconceived sins
a litany
to a downtown beat.
You got me
written all over you,
honey.

You sculpt my left breast
nipple erect.

It gets deep.
In English that means
the clay turns red.

You read from a paperback
by the window.
I tell you
how to make me come.

It’s easy, honey,
say you love me.
I don’t care
if you lie.

Bent over
kitchen counter
onions, garlic, peppers
pressed against my belly

I am still chopping
as you call out your wife’s name.
There is no answer.

In a prayer to God
or this hotel room,

I begin a slow
undressing
of everything
I have ever done wrong.

The pile by the bathroom
keeps
getting bigger,

The lights don’t work here anymore.
I have used up all the cords
and eaten all the sockets.

I dream of suicide parlors,
Civilized and fair.

Believe me,
It’s no great feat
being a terminal girl.




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