For my brother who lived half his life in secret   The moon was full tonight and I didn't stop more than a short moment to marvel as it hung perfect and cream-orange on the horizon; God's November marionette to sequester from my busy day an awe I neglected and yet I came inside, remembering instead past intimacy with the stars moonrises over the desert and you, lying face down on a plastic sheet in a blue diaper semi-conscious from the morphine, As your mother and I quietly arranged your egg collection in the living room cabinet cloisonné, inlaid, wooden, glass, china scenes of other lands reflecting dreams, and your sense of beauty. They made the trip home with you two short weeks ago along with the news that AIDS had been your secret and other things, too, from your parents, who now sit here, who help you to the bathroom, comb your thinning hair, who know everything about your today in this new, and late, closeness. What corridors our secret lives bring us to, and who makes them secret? We, who fear rejection, or others, who fear the truth? This is what matters most: That we hear each other and that we stop for moons.   by Maria Kaefer, MS I