art & man
roger bonair agard
“the artist…” she tells me “is eons ahead of the man”
and when I hear this
I think of Curtis’ smile - continuous mischief
always playful and attentive always ready in a crunch
any danger; any adventure
how he might be glad that I had become ‘artist’
how the pain of his cramped closet
the one my friendship with him kept shut and suffocating
might have become a little easier to bear
how his liver must have shredded inside
as he joined our absurd teenage games
the teasings and the drive-by stonings
just so as not to give himself away
how that pain and the bitter syrup he drank as he mingled it with his love for me
might seem a sip sweeter
the artist has always been bane and darling
protected by those we scorn
abhorred by those we champion
Curtis wore me like a personal cross
the thing under which he hid
while he bore my cruel weight like a carcass
to the hill of his own destruction
We kept at this one-sided love
intersected by a woman whom we both loved
he; as a sister – I; in that new found worship of the flesh
we feted fought made art and laughter
tight together in our joy for one another
cramped together in the cannister of one another’s denial
so when Curtis disappeared for months
and my calls were answered only with
‘everything’s alright; I’ll see you soon…’
I’ll be back in time to drink for Christmas
in time to learn the holiday repertoire
in time for all the important performances…
I thought nothing of his illness
…and when Marcia pulled up to my house screaming
to finally announce curtis death
by AIDS
I was not ready
for the cruel pop-quiz of a self-examination
the question recurring like an insistent fraction
would you have been his friend…?
would you have been his friend if you knew…?
would you have been his friend if you knew he were gay?
…I still do not know the answer to that question
only that I was never as good a friend as he deserved
Marcia fell into my arms that spring
Curtis’ phoenix energy no longer a buffer
and she loved me more than I deserved
Like any ‘good’ disciple I denied Curtis
when it appeared our association would fasten me to the cross of his imagined crimes
the punishable social court of his homosexuality
and so escaped the bloody stigmata of his love for me
Sometimes I like to think…as I wish for a time I cannot take back
and apologies I will never get to make
that Curtis knew what Staceyann tells me everyday I hold her close
safe in my choices and hers
“the artist is eons ahead of the man…”
and that he saw in the short mandate of his years
that somewhere in my future the man might catch up
…and he decided right then and there to love me
well before I was worth it.
Roger Bonair Agard ©2003
