The Bones of Susan

By River Huston

This is the second collection of poetry by River Huston. It captures what it is like to live with HIV over two decades and deal with the grief, loss, love, relationships and finding a life beyond HIV.

• Language: English
• Publisher: River Huston
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466097193

River Huston

River Huston is an award winning journalist, performer, poet and activist. She travels through the United States speaking on issues related to HIV/AIDS, sexuality, self-esteem, and alcohol abuse. She has a degree in Physical Education and Music from Hunter College and was awarded and honorary Doctorate from Albright College in 1995 for her work in the community. In 2009 she was given the Leeway Transformation Award in recognition of how her work has had an impact on society over the last two decades. In 1998 she was awarded the Dorthea Lange/ Paul Taylor award for A Positive Life: Portraits Of Women Living With HIV. In 1996 she was named Poet Laureate of Bucks County, Pennsylvania and is the author of several books of poetry including, Jesus Never Lived Here, The Bones of Susan and In Which I Lost 1000 Pounds. River is the creator of Goddess: A New Guide to Feminine Wisdom and wrote and directed a one woman show which she has performed around the world called, Sex, Cellulite and Large Farm Equipment: One Girls Guide to Living and Dying. Currently River Huston lives in St Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She travels around the world doing performances and presentations on love, life and relationships. She also is the co-director of sevenminuseven, an alternative arts alliance in St Thomas. She spends her days on the island, painting, writing and walking her ancient, small dog, Buddy

Book preview

HI-FIVERS

Body Count or Another Drive-By Shooting

How many today?

The phone poll says five and falling;

catching bullets on Main Street,

downtown and out on the farm.

Lou wears a scarf around his hairless skull

like warriors do

till it flies off his head on a Sunday.

Lou rips tubes from arms and nose;

floats like an angel past ceiling to (only) sky.

Wounds close. Lou rises.

The guns have silencers on them these days,

picking them off 1-2-3...

She says she loves him,

you know... he'll save her

from Mother's not good enough’s,

can't trust you enough’s

why aren't you me enough’s.

In the darkness she dances,

spreading her 15-year old thighs,

remembering something about safety

from health class.

But this is love, baby, love.

and the count goes up one.

In the Doctor office

Jeannie tired all the time:

rash like pain like fever like

whispers in Jeannie's ear

some dusty Pleased to meet you Stone's misquote.

and it all gets real.

Death gnaws at Karen

tiny bites:

takes her son away, then her mother,

then her eyesight.

But you never look too bad

that's what everyone said

Nine a.m. Wednesday morning,

you slip away without comment,

having given your voice already

to those who had none.

John is riddled with bullets

tubing the great ravine.

Keeps dragging his sorry ass back for more

spinal tap bone marrow chemotherapy more.

Living is living he says,

even if it doesn't seem like much to civilians.

Let go, baby

they utter so lightly.

There's a devil facsimile in virus form

clicking his hooves across my ballroom,

dancing over the bones of the dead.

my friends, the dead.

Therapist asks me

How come you don't cry?

I reach for the door

I am detached, I say,

turn the doorknob,

let the door shut behind me.

In my dreams I swim

in pure bloody rage

that never penetrates.

I can never move toward safety.

There is a man on the shore with a net.

He’s calling to me.

When I open my mouth to reply,

it fills with red nothing comes out.

I stand on Madrid street corners

blowing Summertime on my horn.

People stop and listen to me.

Me with tears tattooing my cheeks.

I know what love is.

True fucking love.

I want innocence.

The kind without memorial service, casket lining

bullet holed, funeral marching parade.

Black on black ripped sleeve

sitting Shiva, burning pyre,

votive dripping waxy slave,

musky incense choking

hair and flesh.

I want a long, wet kiss

like I see in movies.

Read about in novels.

One that sends me to heaven

when I stop

I won't even know where I am

kinda kiss.

I want to be far from smokestacks

where wood turns to earth

and bodies are piling up.

Tonight I am safe for an hour or so

as Paganini rhapsodizes.

Memories can't come here for dinner,

memories