collapse *glorious* *glo*
Sara McAulay

           ~ for glo geller, 1937 - 2009

Glittermail from *glo* the *glorious*!
Everything in lower case, each word
in vivid red or blue. 3 hundred pounds of vintage
noo yawk dyke's about to drop some drama
—light up my brain with Stonewall stories—
lewd, loud memories of lavendah menace
drag before the deaths began.

Hard to believe I knew her only from
an email list. Her pixels took up space!
Even her chronic cough had character:
*HACK-HACK!!* all caps and exclamations.
o, i was wild, she'd say—(or type—but I
could hear the pride) —could always
outrun trouble, never mind my size!

Badass Boss Botero Babe, I teased.
fat chix rule ;-D she'd say. Sometimes
she'd vanish from my screen for months,
return with tales of taking down a slumlord,
sitting shiva for a longtime friend, or
for a neighbor's cat.

Then, out of one long silence, this:
20 lbs and falling, grrl! bugger botero
call me badass boss bikini babe, and
jenny craig can fuck herself! and by
the way *HACK-HACK!!* my fucking cough's
gone wild.
Details of comeback virus, of
collapse and ICU remained for others
to relate. Her emails still announced
themselves with stars and sparkles; stories
starting lemme tell you bout the time...
and off she'd go, my questions could go
too, and jennycraig themselves.
*still* *wild*, she answered me at last,
red letters set apart with stars. *still*
*glorious*—*still* *glo*, you know?
p.s. just slightly slow,
you know? :-)

Sometimes I ask myself if friendship has
a shape, sharp borders to contain the numb
geometry of loss. What if the friend was virtual,
"nothing but" a visual voice upon a screen,
"in real life" neither seen nor heard? Since glo
was fat, the emptiness she left is round, its margins
raw—a howling shape of laughter and of grief.