National Poetry Month

October 18, 1990 by Michael Broder

God loves an expiration date. —Jason Schneiderman

Best when used

before date stamped on top,

sell-by date,

freshness date,

date of my diagnosis,

my spoilage.

I was better used before, safer.

But 10 years post-expiration,

you found me on a shelf,

intriguing, older

dating someone else.

You deemed me a safe emotional bet:

hypochondria would protect you,

you could never love a disease vector,

sustain such high risk.

But the heart doesn’t work that way,

and we were each other’s bashert,

the Jewish version of Zeus’s scales,

tossed dice.

Loving me, you had no choice

but to make good use of my infection.

You took it like a height to be defended,

built walls around it,

turrets, aimed your guns.

I knew you thought love would declaw you,

tenderness soften your edge,

or that you were Eurydice,

always disappearing

when a man looked at you over his shoulder.

But this time it was you who risked looking back,

took the chance you’d be the one

to emerge from love’s underworld alone.