After I published The Good Thief,
right around the time when that book came out,
my youngest brother, John, discovered
that he was living with AIDS-- with the AIDS virus.
John was my dearest friend.
He was my editor and my spiritual advisor.
Even though he was 11 years younger than I. So
the next few years he was sick, and then died.
And I didn't write for several years.
I thought I might never write again.
And Stanley Kunitz said this great thing to me.
He said, well, you must wait to see who you will be.
I mean, grief has you in its mouth now.
You must wait to see who you'll be when it's finished with you.
And I began writing very differently after Johnny died.
So I'd like to read some poems about him.
And it just is by way of introduction,
I'll read a little one, it's called "Just Now."
John loved and lived with a man named Joe.
So Joe shows up in these poems too and John does.
Everybody sort of walks around and talks.
John's my brother and Joe is his beloved.
There's a little poem, it was written
in response to that Jesse Helms amendment long ago, remember?
We weren't supposed to write about homo-eroticism.
"Just Now."
My brother opens his eyes when he
hears the door click open downstairs and Joe's steps
walking up past the meowing cat and the second click
of the upstairs door, and then he lifts his face
so that Joe can kiss him.
Joe has brought armfuls of broken magnolia branches
in full blossom, and he putters in the kitchen looking
for a big jar to put them in and finds it.
And now they tower in the living room, white and sweet,
where John can see them if he leans out
from his bed which he can't do just now,
and now Joe is cleaning.
What a mess you've left me, he says,
and John is smiling, almost asleep again.