His Name

His name was Jean,
Not John
Or Juan.
His name brought to mind
Images of cute bistros
And passionate love
And cool confidence.

Even if his name
Was your average name,
Paul, Peter or Steven,
He still would have
Brought those images to my mind,
Simply by the way
He walked, talked and existed.

Jean was my first.
My first love,
My first boyfriend,
The man I first made love to.
At the time,
I thought that he was the one
I was holding on to my virginity for.
Jean was my first
And my last.

It was one autumn evening,
As we huddled on the back porch,
Watching day turn to night.
A lone tear
Rolled down Jean’s cheek
And the words,
“I’m sorry,”
Spilled from his mouth.

He didn’t look at me,
He just spoke
About how much
He loved me,
About how he wish
He could undo it all,
About how he didn’t know
Until it was too late.

When it was all said,
I didn’t know if
I wanted to hug him
Or hurt him.
Neither of those things
Would have meant anything,
I buried Jean that winter.
I only hope I will see the next.

Every now and then,
I would see the woman
Who infected Jean.
I never made a scene
By calling her a whore
Or letting people know
That she had AIDS.
Her time will come soon enough.

Although Jean left that winter,
A part of him
Was born the next summer.
Thankfully, he was born
Without the virus.
There are days when
I want to give up,
But I would look into
Our little boys face
And am reminded
That I have to keep going
For him.

His name is Pierre,
Not Peter
Or Pedro.
His name reminds me
Of the first man I ever love.
He reminds me of Jean.