BEHIND THESE WALLS.
An excerpt from "Tomorrow 12:01.”
The first time Darnell told me he was positive, we were sitting on his back porch, drinking beer, 83 degrees, fresh off of work, the sun had yet to make up its mind if night was going to come quickly or not. It was like how it used to be, innocent, before everything got complicated.
He said it like he was telling me about the party he went to last night: "They got me... I got it…” Barely whispering, “HIV." I thought he meant somebody jumped him or some shit, I started to ask him if he was hurt or okay, but then I saw his face and knew what he really meant.
He told me it happened in prison. He said, "It happened not because I wanted it, but because wanting don't mean much when you locked up."
He said, "Ahhhh, one night," he cleared his throat four times before he found his truth, "Ahhhh, one night when the lights were out, and the guard footsteps fading down the hall... somebody bigger… than me. Stronger… than me, with nothing more to lose, cornered me."
That's it, I knew the rest; it was written in the way he gripped his bottle, like he was ready to swallow the whole story.
When he got tested, months later, they told him straight: positive.
Full stop.
He said he sat on the metal bunk, staring at the wall for hours, thinkin' about his mama, and about his little boy who still asked for him at night. Wonderin' how he was gonna walk back into the world already carrying a sentence no amount of time on parole couldn't erase.
I tried to fight back my tears but....
What broke me wasn't hearing about the virus, but hearing the shame in his voice, like he thought it made him less of a man. He said, "Everybody thinks it only happens to gay dudes or junkies, or women in little dresses and shit, but it happened to me. To me." And he kept shaking his head like he still couldn't believe his own blood turned on him.
I wanted to grab his hand and tell him it didn't change who he was. I wanted to look him in his eyes, catch his tears, and remind him that he was still my brother, still our mama's son, still that same fool who used to dance off beat to Follow Me by Ally Us at the cookouts.
Instead, I listened uninteruptedly, because I could tell that what he needed wasn't a pep talk, but somebody who wouldn't look or walk away.
Doing everything to fight his tears, he leaned back, looked up at the sky like he was trying to memorize it, and said, “Boy oh boy, Jail took my freedom. But this? This shit here took my tomorrow.”
I took a deep breath, hoping he'd take one too as I opened another beer, slid it across the table, and promised him... I wasn't going anywhere; not today, and certainly not tomorrow.
End of excerpt.
Lester Mayers adopts a journalistic approach in his poetry, crafting verses inspired by the real-life stories of those affected by HIV and AIDS. Through a deep exploration of stigmas, poignant suicide notes, thorough court case analyses, heartfelt firsthand accounts, intimate diaries, and detailed police reports, Mayers infuses these narratives with poetic vitality. His work not only combats societal stigmas but also advocates for crucial HIV and AIDS research. Most importantly, it serves as a beacon of hope for anyone facing the virus—whether they themselves are testing positive or supporting a loved one who is. This book stands as a testament to resilience, offering a powerful promise that, no matter the struggles, a brighter Tomorrow is possible if one perseveres.Available for purchase on World AIDS Day, December 1, 2025.