The language of heartbreak

A poem written to comemorate the first half of my life, and the annual bad day, of 6 September.

Fragile

I'm watching through a porthole
Into sterility.

This is a place where gender is masked
Hands are allergy-free, non-latex inhumanity
Mouths, tender or vicious, hush themselves
Behind veils of healthy paper, designed
To ward off inevitability.

The man on the table is a man
My man, once, for not long enough:
Cut open, broken, reassembled
One time too many, not often enough.

I'm watching through a porthole
At his last chance.

Another night, another dreamer
It's me again, pushing back against loss and emptiness
By staying asleep
Sobbing into a pillow
Watching you die again.

I'm watching through a porthole
As they crack the envelope.

One year, the dream was of your heart;
They had you on your back for that.

Another hour in the cold lands, my shoulders hunched
White tumbled ranges under frantic moving covers
Last year, it was probably kidneys
They had you on your stomach:
I remember.

Either way
The porthole shows me your last chance
Your very last chance
All gone, no more to come
Our last chance
Dissolving in the acid rain of the date on the calendar.

I'm looking through a porthole
As they pronounce.

The masks are off, the mouths give information
But not comfort, not for me
There is no comfort for me.

Nothing there for me but the march of another year
Time running uphill
Time stopping
Time coming up against the porthole
Laughing in my face

On the other side
Of fragile.