Stephen Was An Ecstatic Dancer (Aids Elegy) Poem by Doren Robbins

Stephen was an ecstatic dancer until he was twenty-one and I wouldn’t go
to see him dying from AIDS.
I didn’t have what takes to be there to make a salutation

for comfort to him. I could’ve gone there with the story
about his uncle getting into an elevator with Groucho Marx, saying,
“Stephen, listen, right off he told him, ‘Groucho Marx—getting his attention—

‘Groucho, I’ve enjoyed your humor for years.’
And what does Groucho say to him? ‘So have I.’”
I could’ve taken the chance he wouldn’t’ve been too drugged for his pain

to hear the joke or tolerate me sitting on a bathroom rug talking and probably
having to look away. I wouldn’t go see Stephen dying of AIDS.
I know compassion levels all conflict, that wasn’t it.

I knew he would be sitting in a cool bath to ease the pain in his skin,
that’s the way other people told me they saw him when they went over there.
A gay man dying in his bath. I could’ve taken the chance

he wouldn’t’ve been too drugged, worn-down to half the weight
of his dancer’s body to recognize me reading a dance magazine
or a book to him. He was an ecstatic dancer in his career and at whatever

party we were at together. I wouldn’t go see him dying from AIDS.
I should’ve gone. I should’ve looked into his eyes, held him in the water.