for Andrew Z, 1965-2022

 

Before he died, he was remonstrating through his muscles

the tendons the sinews the veins of valour

all those years of guarding grand doors

fending off slurs and blades made him grow

strength to fight like a Spartan, naked, unmasked                    

 

                                                            The Spartans attacked at the height of a plague

                                                            while Athens was swollen with protest, both rich

                                                            and poor, pious and sceptic, silent and loud, inhaled

                                                            each other’s dread, doctors warned of close quarters

                                                            as symptoms outwitted doors and windows

 

Unlike his wife, he buried his symptoms in films

of cats fighting dogs, flags shouting from Everest,

the Moon and Mars, a bruised and battered Rocky

running up those steps built for old people to rest,

and men in their 50s swapping coffee for vinegar

 

                                                            No oxycrat made of honeyed-vinegar stopped

                                                            heats in the head as high-ranking Athenian men

                                                            dropped on pyres quicker than Spartans, who were

                                                            blamed for poisoning wells, bribing oracles,

                                                            sleeping with Apollo, who had bodies made of steel

 

His body withstood the gym’s fatter steel, he was

the protector of puny cousins, like me, when we danced

in a swarm of circles, he stood still with breath unphased

as fools stumbled onto his chest. He was also a gentleman,

when Hypoxemia finally came tapping, he opened the door.