When Did She Infect Me
by Bayard Johnson
© 1995

did she infect me with her fluid love and hot saliva and dying lunar blood, with the cut on her lip, with her bleeding finger up my ass, with her playful bite, with her fingernail tattoo across my back, with her hemorrhaging to death, with the tears I lick from her eyes, with her navel lint, with the milk squirting from her tits, with the sweat smearing her ribs, with the phlegm from the back of her throat, with her riverine mucous, with the yeast she cultivates, with her abcessed tooth, with her chancre sore, with her hangnail, with the rim of her glass and the spit on her fork, with her hacking cough, with her diseased hair, with the sweat I lick from the soles of her feet, with the blood from her kneecaps and rump and spine, when she bites off my tongue, in our bloody car crash, shot up by carjackers, while reviving me with CPR, bleeding into my mouth, with the meningal fuild spilling from her ears and nose, with her infected bone marrow, with the transplant of her undersize diseased heart, sharing the same guitar and picking till our fingers bleed, playing blood-brothers, sampling from the same toothpaste tube, sharing a toothbrush with bloody gums, dipping our chips into one salsa, biting too deep on the same shesh-kabob, loaning me her hypodermic, with her spit on the hookah's mouthpiece, with her pus, when her underwear cuts through my skin, with the secretions from the follicles of her pulled hair, with the warm moist breath I suck from her lungs, when I use her old dental floss from the wastebasket, when I re-use her discarded sutures, sharing binoculars, with her lesions, with her diarrhea, using the wrong hairbrush, showered by broken glass, via the telephone, when we step on the same thumbtack, when the rubber implodes, when we're cut on the edge of the VISA card