The fountains are frozen
Dec. 1, 2018
By Amarylis Douglas,
The fountains are frozen. The Buddha has tears.
December first, National AIDS Day:
so many years back,
back in the throes of the epidemic,
every artist, every painter, every designer, every dancer,
every writer, ceased for the day, a day without art
in the memory of the so many who had died.
Handsome young men with heaven-touched eyes,
who walked up above the sidewalk.
Today, thirty years later, a new millennium.
Now there are only a few gatherings, memorials, stories.
But the sky remembers. Quietly,
from the east it sends a warm rose glow
into the icy city river,
then into the hills to calm the shivering firs.
All the city traffic is stopped. The sound has reduced
to a hush. Everything has frozen. The sky is
smooth silver, painted by melancholy.
Just before dusk, a gang of scrappy crows
momentarily seizes the sky, screaming
“Remember their names.”