There Are No Accidents

for Murad

　

Disease is final. Only your dark

skin can save me now. Your hair is

taut. Your mind dissects my luxury.

We give it all we’ve got,

but your profession here beneath the

cellars of my care is fraught with

phlegm, blood, sperm of young men,

dead. I trusted you. You gave no choice.

You might deceive yourself, and yet

I thought it could be fine, this once,

to measure up, a Greek in you.