Tested

Three years later I am still getting 
tested.
Six months, say the clinicians.
Eighteen years, a counselor friend 
told me.

At first I felt like a paranoid het
sitting among legions of gay 
men
at the health center
but now more women are getting tested.

When I 
tested negative 
a month after you died 
I was dismayed.
The next time 
they took my blood
I was terrified, then relieved.
Now the whole thing has 
become routine
if not ritualistic.
When the needle pierces my skin
I 
remember telling you:
I regret nothing.  Even if I get AIDS
I will regret 
nothing.
Perhaps you thought me mad:
I wasn't sure.
By then you were 
hooked to a respirator
and never spoke again.

Except with your eyes.
They 
crinkled at the corners
when I reminded you
of the morning we'd clung to 
one another on Broadway
as cabs rolled by until I missed my flight.

The 
faint bruise on my arm is oddly reassuring.
Until I get the results
I 
repeat like a mantra my resolve of no regrets.
So far
this     
has not 
been tested.