Home > Uncategorized > Love Letters to Ronald Reagan

My family won’t let my boyfriend into my hospital room, with its migraines for windows and an armchair for you to sit in while you ignore me making breakfast in my hospital gown. (Newspapers piling up in the corner, reprinting stories about Rock Hudson on the wall). When Alzheimer’s quiets your brain into paradise and communism and the retrovirus that termites my immune system has satiated itself sing to me of swollen lymph nodes like anti-Sandinistas and white blood cells like contras. R Darling, I’m pulling my hair out over you and it’s clogging up my kitchen sink. Harbinger of insanity, spare me the garbage disposal, give me something for these KS lesions—an abandoned beehive for my protruding ribcage— Colony Collapse Disorder in my two bedroom one bathroom apartment. At night you look out over the city with AIDS Public Policy Dimensions printing itself on the backs of your eyelids, while I lay perfectly still as the disease inside me integrates itself into my genes. Ronald, press a typewriter ribbon to my lip and punch out an acronym for all this gay cancer. Tell me that I am the water of your lungs, that your hands are empty cups, that you can’t sleep because of me. Bleach my sheets and change the pillowcases on my bed. Bury my hospital bills in the Rose Garden. When you find me on the kitchen floor, plum-skinned and cancerous, rub my back, every pill an oval office, and slip out to make me breakfast, the table set with Nancy’s good china.