Antibodies

In the black and white of winter,
there is no shower of ice water
cold enough to shrink me
into so tiny, so shriveled
a gherkin
trembling at your hip

as when we pricked our fingers,
bled the sanguine truth
onto pads the size of dimes
thirsting for our 
hot antigen evidence
of 21st century leprosy.

You milked your finger
while I milked mine,
before we sealed our fates
in separate, anonymous envelopes
for the drop box.

A week later, our verdicts,
spoken several minutes apart.
The last wall melted,
terror to freedom
as we lay quietly,
remembering those, who, unlike us,
for all our careless moments
of bare flesh in flesh,
received not acquittal,
but a death sentence
from the High Priests of Medicine.

Scott Speck
02/08/2003