visceral

fear battles with trust —
these are objectless abstracts,
irrationally
seizing our souls in their jaws,
revealing our helplessness

I dreamed I was in immediate danger of being infected with HIV. Almost everyone around me was infected. One man escaped — a professor of mathematics whose son was a childhood friend of mine. It was my grandfather in the end who infected me. Since he was a man I certainly trusted in real life, perhaps the poem is about the surprise of finding myself his victim. A bit like Rolf Harris turning out to be a serial child molester. We surround ourselves with such fragile structures: friends, enemies, good guys, bad guys. Somehow real life is much more indiscriminate. More terrifying than our fears. More viscerally reliable than anything (or anyone) we trust.

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