Poetry Form: Sonnet
We're married in nineteen eight-seven
That is the day I wore your band of gold
I spied cumulus clouds in the Heavens
In my life -- this marriage becomes two-fold
I honestly live everyone's worst fears
My life's mortality is cut in half
I return home heaving onion tears
Silently pray for a medical gaffe
And like a true Orthodox Catholic
I cannot ask you to grant a divorce
I pray from today on -- I don't get sick
Twenty-years later, I have no remorse
I carry a virus, I have lived my life
Have come to love a disease -- as a wife.
July 19, 2004
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