Mickie Kennedy

The Gay Disease

The first time she said it, I flinched

inside, where she couldn’t

see it, not really. She picked at her salad,

while a sour-faced waiter forced more tea

into my already-filled glass.

I wanted to interrupt her, to correct her,

but who was I—a gay son

who took a wife and burrowed inside

a two-story colonial.

Four bedrooms, a bar in the basement.

I could never tell her how much

I missed being touched.

Never share the names of the men

whose slow deaths

I couldn’t bear to watch.

So when she said it,

spearing a crouton with her fork, I let her

say it, lifting my drink—a toast

to my silence.