Ode To Syphilis
Hiding its origin, this evil thing / sprawls over Europe.
—Girolamo Fracastoro, Syphilis sive Morbus Gallicus (1530),
translated by William Van Wyck
Oh Syphilis, noble shepherd,
you condemned a god
who carved your land
into troughs for steeds
that gorged and left
lesions in place of rivers.
Apollo spread a hundred
red suns across your body
and they still radiate
in my own skin, a universe
of stars left for me
to navigate. My rashes
are a summer of sunsets,
violet and warm to the touch
after I, too, took a lord’s name
in vain, replaced it with a man
inside my lips. Now, Syphilis,
whenever I swallow, a star
burns down my throat
like a wish, illuminates
my chest where bacteria
in my heart will replicate
if I let them, if I believe
it’s just about skin
and not the way
an entire body
can be colonized
into submission
so silently. Nothing
undoes that kind of damage,
like the chancrous white
flames sprawled over Europe
after Columbus returned,
acquired from the New World,
scientists claim—and if
that’s true, dear Syphilis,
bless you, holy prophet,
for warning us all
how much we carry,
for reminding me
how a man throttled
my neck and I prayed
he would expand
my pupils into night,
as if I would finally see
the darkness in myself,
every constellation
and myth I’ve devoured.
