Thanksgiving with Dad and Dogpoet

Dogpoet: "I call my father to tell him I might miss dinner tonight. He asks if I want anything, maybe something to eat? Something to drink? I tell him no, because I feel like hiding, because I feel like suffering alone. I feel guilty, I always feel guilty, about getting sick. Perhaps it is my Midwestern work ethic, so badly bruised after seven years in California. Perhaps it is having HIV. But I feel somehow responsible for my sickness, and a familiar shame settles in along with the chills and the body aches. I feel both punished and overdramatic, like I’m making a big deal over nothing."

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