The inaugural title in our chapbook series was Jacques J. Rancourt's In the Time of PrEP. Rancourt is the author of Novena, winner of the Lena-Miles Wever Todd prize (Pleiades Press, 2017). He has held poetry fellowships from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris, and Stanford University, where he was a Wallace Stegner Fellow. His poems have appeared in The Georgia Review, Kenyon Review, Missouri Review, New England Review, Ploughshares, and Virginia Quarterly Review, among other journals, as well as in Best New Poets.
Of the collection, Eduardo C. Corral (author of Slow Lightning, winner of the Yale Younger Poets Prize) writes, “In this country, AIDS is no longer a quick death sentence. Jacques J. Rancourt, born the year AZT was released, makes visible its wreckage in the present. The plague years—queer bodies kissed by death and public scorn—shadow the speaker as he cruises, travels, and marries. Rancourt's language is finely chiseled, attentive to the spiritual and the carnal. Each poem reminds us to live, to remember.”
THE END HAS NOT YET PASSED OVER US
That God first placed an angel
with a flaming sword to guard
Eden’s gates; that pleasure could poison;
that we could be punished
further; that the Death Horse blazed
through here & did not stop for me
though I asked it to, though I reached out a hand
to course my fingers through its mane—
I knew. Snow falls. Termites eat out
the tree’s giant heart. I wish
I could remain unchanged had the plague
passed through me. I wish
the geranium back to bloom, the frost to the eaves,
the fire back to the candles
the children carried through the orchard
the night it burned down. I watch
the woman flatten the snake with her foot
just to see how much blood it holds,
but what does this have to do with God?
I was careless, yes, & spared.
That God first placed an angel
with a flaming sword to guard
Eden’s gates; that pleasure could poison;
that we could be punished
further; that the Death Horse blazed
through here & did not stop for me
though I asked it to, though I reached out a hand
to course my fingers through its mane—
I knew. Snow falls. Termites eat out
the tree’s giant heart. I wish
I could remain unchanged had the plague
passed through me. I wish
the geranium back to bloom, the frost to the eaves,
the fire back to the candles
the children carried through the orchard
the night it burned down. I watch
the woman flatten the snake with her foot
just to see how much blood it holds,
but what does this have to do with God?
I was careless, yes, & spared.