(October 11, 1987)

Douglas Lowery.

The clock wakes us early. I rise. It's still dark.

I feel my way downstairs, grind coffee and pour.

Warren joins me, brings us both a bowl of bits.

We munch together, grunt our morning kiss.

Antonio Lopez. Albert Jones.

Sun up, I fold into his car. Warren drives the miles

to the train. We take it into town, over the bridge,

through tunnels. We emerge to nearly empty streets.

We spy others like us. We walk beside them.

Stephen Quesada. Philip Weathers. Jeffrey Kowalczyk.

City air still wet and clean, I breathe in deep.

In the middle of town, we join the milling throng

in front of the bar, six buses for the trip.

We knew this would be big, but not this big.

Robert Michael Flaherty.

People of every color and kind, blear-eyed throng,
in tee shirts and tanks, chaps, camisoles and kilts.
We mill, laughing, stumbling, on sidewalk and street.
Some drink coffee; some nurse something strong.

Amy Sloan. John Ferrera. Gary Mitchell.

I leave Warren by the curb to find the coffee cart.

A six-foot queen in blonde, evening wear and wig

belts to the crowd in brawling baritone:

“Time to roll, darlings!” I trudge back to our spot.

Jaye Mayhugh. Stuart Rondell.

A burly woman, vest sagging with buttons,
waves and points to the bus front door. We climb,
walk past empty rows on the right hand side.

We find places halfway back. We settle in.

David Bailey. David Rivera. Dave Castro.

Up front, small commotion: a wiry man bends,
lifts someone, another man, baggy jeans and jacket,

hair the color of shredded wheat, over the steps and in.

He steadies his friend, who smiles. They sit up front.

Lam Kim Huynh. Michael Fitzgerald.

Snug in my seat, I sip my bitter, scorching brew.

Warren grins at me, then peers outside.

I put my free hand on his knee. He reaches

to close his hand over mine. I study his beard.

Steve Gomes. Nancy Sawaya. Victor Lopez.

Two young women bound up the steps. Pink hair

bobbing, they greet the two men. They whisper

to them. They laugh, and take the seats behind.

Up front, the driver yanks; the door thumps shut.

Matsuko Gaffney. Roosevelt Montgomery.

We watch all the idling buses fill. Our driver stands,
recites the safety rules. He puts our bus in gear.
We lurch forward. Cheers rise. Three men up front
wave boas and pass a Thermos. A trio sings off-key.

Scott Oatman. Lavelle Dorsey. Elizabeth Prophet.

The air conditioning strains, almost clears

coffee, beer, sweat, hints of diesel, and cologne.

My cup empty now, I crush it and fold it tight.

I stuff the rough cube in my pocket and lean back.

David Emmons. John Russo. Natalie.

As miles sail past, the revelers settle in. Singing
fades to chatter. Foreheads meet; fingers intertwine.
My arm around his shoulders, I pull Warren close,
face to face, safe to kiss in our queer people's caravan.

Ilja Glusgal. Richard Johnston. Richard Roberts.

We wake when the bus slows, turns, and stops.

Cheers erupt again, then the bustle of unpacking.

Up front, friends and the driver poised to catch,

the blond man disembarks. We stand and stretch.

Washington Bellamy, Jr.

Two men open bins beneath the bus.

They pull out a folded wheelchair, pass it

to the pink-haired pair, who unfold it

and snap the bracing rods in place.

Jan Patat Luxwolda. Richard Bledsoe.

The two workmen keep unloading. They tug

big flat boxes from which placards appear.

Folded flags emerge, then poles to fly them.

Pink triangles and rainbows slowly fill the lot.

Tommy Oates. Mikel. Ron Schwert, M.D.

On the bus, folk edge forward up the aisle.

We linger, shy in our family of strangers.

A fit man in a purple tank smiles at us and nods.

Warren leads me down the aisle, to ground.

Hibiscus. Paul Castro. Bill Cathcart.

Beside the bus, the wiry man gently seats his friend.

One pink-haired woman tapes a rainbow to the chair.

At the far end of the lot, the Metro station looms

and we make our way in the current of the crowd.

Ron Cohen. Doug Jabez. José Simon. Bob Greenwood.

Above us, the huge steel net growls welcome

to the Metro station. We cheer each other on:

“For love and for life, we're not going back!”
Laughing, we sink into the Metro, and flow.

Gene Peterson. Michael Flowers. Vicki Battista.

This stream pours from all corners of the country,

in cars and buses, on motorcycle and on foot,

some in wheelchairs, some walking with canes,

and through all the lines of the capital subway.

Rev. Carl Bivens. John Selby.

Canute's tide, we burst out from below.

We erupt like geysers, hundreds at a time.

Spokes in a wheel, we flood the District streets,

merge with those thousands, spill to city's core.

Wayne Morden. Craig Alan Mills. Jerry.

In the eddies at the edges, where the march forms,

organized groups wait their turns to step forward.

The river pours through the streets of Washington.

Buoyed by joy, Warren and I jump into the march.

Ahmed Hernandez. Francisco de Oyos.

“Come out for yourself, for your friends! Come out

for justice! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Triangles afire on banners of black, white letters blaze:
“Silence = Death.” Our flags boast rainbow stripes.

Jon Shymansky. Richard Truelove. Tyrone Lavin.

As we stride, high wind blows both hot and cold,

sun and shade. A low breeze blows chill air.

Many thousand bodies marching warm the streets.

Monuments of the nation bear witness as we pass.

Juan Miguel Torres. Camille. Dr. Tom Waddell.

Rounding a curve, Holy rollers hold signs,

“God Hates Fags!” We roar outrage.

Around another curve, we find a line of men

in wheelchairs, waving flags to cheer us on.

Cody Williams. Clarence Robinson, Jr.

On scattered signs among us, a devil scowls
from posters of chartreuse, black, and pink:
a faded movie monster, laughing at us as we die.
We exult in our defiance. We shall not disappear.

Scott Garrison. Liberace.

Our river nears its end. The torrent slows

quiets, calms. We drift beside green lawn.

Fabric fills the Mall, panels spread like graves.

Distant voices chant a hidden, secret beat.

James Byron Smith. Lloyd Phelps. Hank Vilas.

We plod past the quilt, in grim procession now.

We study the cloth expanse, regard our newly dead.

We hear the muffled speakers coming clear.

The woman at the dais reads a list of names.

Terry Omer. Rev. Randall Kingsbury. Farris Hart, R.N.

All day long, while the crowded buses rolled,

they called those names—already today,

nearly a thousand, only six years in this plague.

Before light fails, they will read a thousand more.

André Hebert. Cesar Albini. Fred Levine. Queen Christine.

Two thousand panels here, names of fallen friends.

Ten times more gone, unmarked, unnamed, un-noted.

We will lose so many more, across the country,

around the world, with no end anyone can see.

Bob, a biker. Joe, a biker. Ray, a biker. Tom, a biker.

Before the platform, survivors in wheelchairs

face the crowded stage. Some are thin. Some are hale.

Hair the color of wheat, of night and chalk and flame.

Faces every shade, they watch as names are read.

Stephen J. Dunn. Rosie. Rock Hudson. David Maynard.

I remember Tommy. Long-haired, limber, lithe,

he wore scruffy charm like his burgundy sash

held loose jeans hanging low. Laughing eyes,

half closed in lust. Gentle hands. So far away.

Raul. Keith. Buck. Unknown. Unknown. Chris. Unknown.

The woman leaves the mic. A man steps to her place.

He reads a name. He reads another name. And another.

The names cry out in the voices of the vanished:

“Remember me.” “I lived!” “Someone was here.”

A. Sydney Gadd III. Diego Lopez. David Langworthy.

Warren stands in front of me. I drape my arms

around him. I nuzzle his hair. He leans back.

Everyone around us stands still. No chatter now,

no words. Just tears. At times a gasp of pain.

Richard Audette. Richard Bruce Fried. Bill Richmond.

I don't know how to sew. Facing those we've lost,

I freeze. My hands grow cold. Warren
looks up and back at me, clasps my hands in his.
I have no words today. We stand in cooling air.

Neil Kent Augustine. Miguel Morgado. Nina Johnson.

Dr. John Garner. Ignacio Zuazo. Michael McKinnon.

Jim Fiore. Michael Talbott. Phil …

https://siarchives.si.edu/blog/aids-memorial-quilt-national-mall

https://www.aidsmemorial.org

David Milley

Names

(October 11, 1987)

Douglas Lowery.

The clock wakes us early. I rise. It's still
dark.

I feel my way downstairs, grind coffee
and pour.

Warren joins me, brings us both a bowl
of bits.

We munch together, grunt our morning
kiss.

Antonio Lopez. Albert Jones.

Sun up, I fold into his car. Warren drives
the miles

to the train. We take it into town, over
the bridge,

through tunnels. We emerge to nearly
empty streets.

We spy others like us. We walk beside
them.

Stephen Quesada. Philip Weathers.
Jeffrey Kowalczyk.

City air still wet and clean, I breathe in
deep.

In the middle of town, we join the
milling throng

in front of the bar, six buses for the trip.

We knew this would be big, but not this
big.

Robert Michael Flaherty.

People of every color and kind, blear-
eyed throng,
in tee shirts and tanks, chaps, camisoles

and kilts.
We mill, laughing, stumbling, on

sidewalk and street.
Some drink coffee; some nurse something

strong.

Amy Sloan. John Ferrera. Gary Mitchell.

I leave Warren by the curb to find the
coffee cart.

A six-foot queen in blonde, evening wear
and wig

belts to the crowd in brawling baritone:

“Time to roll, darlings!” I trudge back to
our spot.

Jaye Mayhugh. Stuart Rondell.

A burly woman, vest sagging with
buttons,
waves and points to the bus front door.

We climb,
walk past empty rows on the right hand

side.

We find places halfway back. We settle in.

David Bailey. David Rivera. Dave Castro.

Up front, small commotion: a wiry man
bends,
lifts someone, another man, baggy jeans

and jacket,

hair the color of shredded wheat, over
the steps and in.

He steadies his friend, who smiles. They
sit up front.

Lam Kim Huynh. Michael Fitzgerald.

Snug in my seat, I sip my bitter,
scorching brew.

Warren grins at me, then peers outside.

I put my free hand on his knee. He
reaches

to close his hand over mine. I study his
beard.

Steve Gomes. Nancy Sawaya. Victor
Lopez.

Two young women bound up the steps.
Pink hair

bobbing, they greet the two men. They
whisper

to them. They laugh, and take the seats
behind.

Up front, the driver yanks; the door
thumps shut.

Matsuko Gaffney. Roosevelt Montgomery.

We watch all the idling buses fill. Our
driver stands,
recites the safety rules. He puts our bus

in gear.
We lurch forward. Cheers rise. Three

men up front
wave boas and pass a Thermos. A trio

sings off-key.

Scott Oatman. Lavelle Dorsey. Elizabeth
Prophet.

The air conditioning strains, almost clears

coffee, beer, sweat, hints of diesel, and
cologne.

My cup empty now, I crush it and fold it
tight.

I stuff the rough cube in my pocket and
lean back.

David Emmons. John Russo. Natalie.

As miles sail past, the revelers settle in.
Singing
fades to chatter. Foreheads meet; fingers

intertwine.
My arm around his shoulders, I pull

Warren close,
face to face, safe to kiss in our queer

people's caravan.

Ilja Glusgal. Richard Johnston. Richard
Roberts.

We wake when the bus slows, turns, and
stops.

Cheers erupt again, then the bustle of
unpacking.

Up front, friends and the driver poised to
catch,

the blond man disembarks. We stand and
stretch.

Washington Bellamy, Jr.

Two men open bins beneath the bus.

They pull out a folded wheelchair, pass it

to the pink-haired pair, who unfold it

and snap the bracing rods in place.

Jan Patat Luxwolda. Richard Bledsoe.

The two workmen keep unloading. They
tug

big flat boxes from which placards appear.

Folded flags emerge, then poles to fly
them.

Pink triangles and rainbows slowly fill
the lot.

Tommy Oates. Mikel. Ron Schwert, M.D.

On the bus, folk edge forward up the
aisle.

We linger, shy in our family of strangers.

A fit man in a purple tank smiles at us
and nods.

Warren leads me down the aisle, to
ground.

Hibiscus. Paul Castro. Bill Cathcart.

Beside the bus, the wiry man gently seats
his friend.

One pink-haired woman tapes a rainbow
to the chair.

At the far end of the lot, the Metro
station looms

and we make our way in the current of
the crowd.

Ron Cohen. Doug Jabez. José Simon. Bob
Greenwood.

Above us, the huge steel net growls
welcome

to the Metro station. We cheer each
other on:

“For love and for life, we're not going
back!”
Laughing, we sink into the Metro, and

flow.

Gene Peterson. Michael Flowers. Vicki
Battista.

This stream pours from all corners of the
country,

in cars and buses, on motorcycle and on
foot,

some in wheelchairs, some walking with
canes,

and through all the lines of the capital
subway.

Rev. Carl Bivens. John Selby.

Canute's tide, we burst out from below.

We erupt like geysers, hundreds at a time.

Spokes in a wheel, we flood the District
streets,

merge with those thousands, spill to city's
core.

Wayne Morden. Craig Alan Mills. Jerry.

In the eddies at the edges, where the
march forms,

organized groups wait their turns to step
forward.

The river pours through the streets of
Washington.

Buoyed by joy, Warren and I jump into
the march.

Ahmed Hernandez. Francisco de Oyos.

“Come out for yourself, for your friends!
Come out

for justice! Come out, come out,
wherever you are!”
Triangles afire on banners of black, white

letters blaze:
“Silence = Death.” Our flags boast

rainbow stripes.

Jon Shymansky. Richard Truelove.
Tyrone Lavin.

As we stride, high wind blows both hot
and cold,

sun and shade. A low breeze blows chill
air.

Many thousand bodies marching warm
the streets.

Monuments of the nation bear witness as
we pass.

Juan Miguel Torres. Camille. Dr. Tom
Waddell.

Rounding a curve, Holy rollers hold signs,

“God Hates Fags!” We roar outrage.

Around another curve, we find a line of
men

in wheelchairs, waving flags to cheer us
on.

Cody Williams. Clarence Robinson, Jr.

On scattered signs among us, a devil
scowls
from posters of chartreuse, black, and

pink:
a faded movie monster, laughing at us as

we die.
We exult in our defiance. We shall not

disappear.

Scott Garrison. Liberace.

Our river nears its end. The torrent slows

quiets, calms. We drift beside green lawn.

Fabric fills the Mall, panels spread like
graves.

Distant voices chant a hidden, secret beat.

James Byron Smith. Lloyd Phelps. Hank
Vilas.

We plod past the quilt, in grim
procession now.

We study the cloth expanse, regard our
newly dead.

We hear the muffled speakers coming
clear.

The woman at the dais reads a list of
names.

Terry Omer. Rev. Randall Kingsbury.
Farris Hart, R.N.

All day long, while the crowded buses
rolled,

they called those names—already today,

nearly a thousand, only six years in this
plague.

Before light fails, they will read a
thousand more.

André Hebert. Cesar Albini. Fred Levine.
Queen Christine.

Two thousand panels here, names of
fallen friends.

Ten times more gone, unmarked,
unnamed, un-noted.

We will lose so many more, across the
country,

around the world, with no end anyone
can see.

Bob, a biker. Joe, a biker. Ray, a biker.
Tom, a biker.

Before the platform, survivors in
wheelchairs

face the crowded stage. Some are thin.
Some are hale.

Hair the color of wheat, of night and
chalk and flame.

Faces every shade, they watch as names
are read.

Stephen J. Dunn. Rosie. Rock Hudson.
David Maynard.

I remember Tommy. Long-haired, limber,
lithe,

he wore scruffy charm like his burgundy
sash

held loose jeans hanging low. Laughing
eyes,

half closed in lust. Gentle hands. So far
away.

Raul. Keith. Buck. Unknown. Unknown.
Chris. Unknown.

The woman leaves the mic. A man steps
to her place.

He reads a name. He reads another name.
And another.

The names cry out in the voices of the
vanished:

“Remember me.” “I lived!” “Someone was
here.”

A. Sydney Gadd III. Diego Lopez. David
Langworthy.

Warren stands in front of me. I drape my
arms

around him. I nuzzle his hair. He leans
back.

Everyone around us stands still. No
chatter now,

no words. Just tears. At times a gasp of
pain.

Richard Audette. Richard Bruce Fried.
Bill Richmond.

I don't know how to sew. Facing those
we've lost,

I freeze. My hands grow cold. Warren
looks up and back at me, clasps my hands
in his.
I have no words today. We stand in
cooling air.

Neil Kent Augustine. Miguel Morgado.
Nina Johnson.

Dr. John Garner. Ignacio Zuazo. Michael
McKinnon.

Jim Fiore. Michael Talbott. Phil …

https://siarchives.si.edu/blog/aids-memorial-quilt-national-mall

https://www.aidsmemorial.org

David Milley

Names

David Milley's recent work appears in RFD Magazine, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Halfway Down the Stairs, Friends Journal, and Capsule Stories. David lives in New Jersey with his husband and partner of forty-eight years, Warren Davy, who's made his living as a farmer, woodcutter, nurseryman, auctioneer, beekeeper, and cook. These days, Warren tends his garden and keeps honeybees. David walks and writes.