The Mortician in San Francisco

By Randall Mann

This may sound queer,
but in 1985 I held the delicate hands
of Dan White:
I prepared him for burial; by then, Harvey Milk
was made monument—no, myth—by the year
since he was shot.

I remember when Harvey was shot:

twenty, and I knew I was queer.

Those were the years,

Levi’s and leather jackets holding hands

on Castro Street, cheering for Harvey Milk—

elected on the same day as Dan White.

I often wonder about Supervisor White,

who fatally shot

Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Milk,

who was one of us, a Castro queer.

May 21, 1979: a jury hands

down the sentence, seven years—

in truth, five years—

for ex-cop, ex-fireman Dan White,

for the blood on his hands;

when he confessed that he had shot

the mayor and the queer,

a few men in blue cheered. And Harvey Milk?

Why cry over spilled milk,

some wondered, semi-privately, for years—

it meant “one less queer.”

The jurors turned to White.

If just the mayor had been shot,

Dan might have had trouble on his hands—

but the twelve who held his life in their hands

maybe didn’t mind the death of Harvey Milk;

maybe, the second murder offered him a shot

at serving only a few years.

In the end, he committed suicide, this Dan White.

And he was made presentable by a queer.