Tested

by Marcy Sheiner
(12/01/01)

Three years later I am still getting tested.
Six months, say the clinicians.
Eighteen years, a counselor friend told me.

At first I felt like a paranoid het
sitting among legions of gay men
at the health center
but now more women are getting tested.

When I tested negative
a month after you died
I was dismayed.
The next time they took my blood
I was terrified, then relieved.
Now the whole thing has become routine
if not ritualistic.
When the needle pierces my skin
I remember telling you:
I regret nothing. Even if I get AIDS
I will regret nothing.
Perhaps you thought me mad:
I wasn't sure.
By then you were hooked to a respirator
and never spoke again.

Except with your eyes.
They crinkled at the corners
when I reminded you
of the morning we'd clung to one another on Broadway
as cabs rolled by until I missed my flight.

The faint bruise on my arm is oddly reassuring.
Until I get the results
I repeat like a mantra my resolve of no regrets.
So far
this
has not been tested.

©2001 by Marcy Sheiner

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