The forecast predicted rain
My brother was positive for eight years
His hands were like oil based canvas that created master pieces
Embarrassed and ashamed dad disowned him out of fears
It was a beast that hid in the shadows of his t-cells
Every 12 hours of prescribed antiretroviral medication became a mission
The times that I saw his face my eyes became wells
Black trees carved into his coffin
He was lifted away into the dark night
Cemented gravel compressed into his tomb
The east winds won’t stop blowing
And the river of this epidemic keeps flowing.
Tiffany Collins ©