A prayer for Rhodophoria

Pulse-nightclub-memorial

 

Beautiful Aphrodite, hear me.
Gracious Venus, hear me.
Flora and Rosa, kindliest of nymphs, hear me.
Great Isis, who art all goddesses in yourself, hear me.
Today we come carrying roses for those who died of love.
Not those like Tristan and Isolda, pining for each other
after their adulterous affair was interrupted,
nor those sad women who were killed
by men who claimed to love them,
but wanted rather to possess them.
Today the devotees of Antinous come before your altars
carrying roses for those who died because of
whom they chose to love, and because
they wanted to dance.
They wanted to dance in freedom, in joy, in celebration,
in love, in lust, in the fullness of everything that means
life: And they were shot to death.
Victims of the Pulse Nightclub shooting,
may you be remembered:
A rose for Jean Carlos Nieves Rodriguez, 27, and
a rose for Stanley Almodovar III, 23, and
a rose for Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32, and
a rose for Luis Daniel Conde, 39, and
a rose for Juan Pablo Rivera Velazquez, 37, and
a rose for Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40, and
a rose for Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33, and
a rose for Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37, and
a rose for Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35, and
a rose for Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21, and
a rose for Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49, and
a rose for Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24, and
a rose for Franky Jimmy De Jesús Velazquez, 50, and
a rose for Juan Chavez-Martinez, 25, and
a rose for Jerald Arthur Wright, 31, and
a rose for Antonio Davon Brown, 29, and
a rose for Miguel Angel Honorato, 30, and
a rose for Anthony Luis Laureano Disla, 25, and
a rose for K.J. Morris, 37, and
a rose for Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34, and
a rose for Frankie Hernandez, 27, and
a rose for Akyra Monet Murray, 18, and
a rose for Joel Rayon Paniagua, 31, and
a rose for Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24, and
a rose for Yilmary Rodriguez Sulivan, 24, and
a rose for Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25, and
a rose for Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25, and
a rose for Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26, and
a rose for Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22, and
a rose for Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33, and
a rose for Paul Terrell Henry, 41, and
a rose for Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35, and
a rose for Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25, and
a rose for Amanda Alvear, 25, and
a rose for Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30, and
a rose for Angel Luis Candelario-Padro, 28, and
a rose for Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31, and
a rose for Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26, and
a rose for Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19, and
a rose for Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25, and
a rose for Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25, and
a rose for Darryl Roman Burt II, 29, and
a rose for Cory James Connell, 21, and
a rose for Martin Benitez Torres, 33, and
a rose for Luis S. Vielma, 22, and
a rose for Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20, and
a rose for Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36, and
a rose for Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22, and
a rose for Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32, and
a rose for every dead lover
who just wanted to dance.

Advertisements

POEM: Forty-nine graves

If you want to know whether guns kill people
or whether people kill people
if you want to know whether words break bones
or if only sticks and stones can do that
if you want to know what happens
when a word like “faggot” puts bullets
like stones in a gun like a stick
and a word like “dyke” makes the gun erupt
like a super-volcano with five thousand years
of hatred, disgust, condemnation
if you want to know whether homophobia kills
whether fear of The Other really has power
there are forty-nine graves in Orlando,
Florida that weren’t there a week ago
that will answer your questions
with their silence.

(With thanks to Richard on Tumblr.)

#prayfororlando

I am not good at saying wise and helpful things when tragedy strikes. Even when I identified as heterosexual, even as a child, I had no comprehension of hatred for gay and lesbian people. Now I can only sit dumbly and think, “My people have been harmed, again. I am bisexual, and in the right circumstances, I could lose my life for that fact.”

All I have to share is an idea for a fanfic that I don’t think I have the energy to write: Steve Rogers, Captain America, goes to Orlando to donate blood in the current crisis. He has type O blood, the universal donor, and thanks to his superpowers, he can donate two or three times the amount of blood a normal person can give without any harm to himself.

The hospital is immensely grateful to see him, of course. The hospital administrators are eager to spin his visit for PR. Then Steve points out that the long-haired, scruffy guy lurking over there with his jacket still on and his hands in his pockets is Bucky Barnes, his lifelong friend and current lover.

“I’m bisexual,” Steve says, with that set of his jaw that says nothing will move him. “You gonna turn down Captain America’s type O blood because he’s queer? ‘Cos I am!”