Poets of Our Century

We speak in weak veins, we speak in needles, we speak in flushes of saline. We hear the resounding “Sorry, we have to try again”, and that’s how we know, we are the same.

OUCH. “Sorry I had a mocha this morning. That probably makes things worse.” I tell the nurse regarding her struggle to get anything from my veins. 

Your language and mine remains in the waiting rooms. Where I sit with you, spiritually, holding your hand,

and that
is enough.

At every turn is another chance to catastrophize. 
I leave the follow up email from the fertility clinic in my inbox, unread, starred.
Subject title: “Are you ready to take the next step with us?”

Girl, I would, only if you could give me $10k and a sense of certainty that is not exponentially decreasing. Even then, would you like to pay for my ongoing therapy sessions where I try to work through my hyper-fixation on controlling the future?

The violence comes haunting, even as I go about my day. Who allowed you to find me? I gave you my email address. Did I consent to this reality that was sold to me as healthcare? Maybe. Who started this process? I can’t tell at this point. Or, I’m afraid to say it was you. Or, I guess we’ve both had a part to play. Or, I refuse to answer. I don’t know how to answer this question. Am I to blame? Maybe. Is this a battle I picked? Yes. Is this going to be the hill I die on? Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Part luck, part un-luck. I am both willing and unwilling participant in this system.

My art therapist used to be a nurse and I thank God she used to be.
She understood when I told her I needed the window to be kept open. I needed to hear the cars driving past, I needed to hear the quiet chatter from below. 

A sign of not-death, a signal of warmth.
Too quiet is too sterile, too clean is anxiety-inducing.

I so wish I could be there with you, but I am far away now. 
I’ve moved cities, but we were never in the same city to begin with when we fell sick. 

You here, and me, many many kilometres away in a city without seasons.
A city with an endless summer. 

We got to know each other after we found our own language for making sense of things.
You in pixels, and myself in writing.

We are poets of our century, not of time but a space we’ve carved out on our own. Transmuting each organ and loss, and gentle joy into colour only few can see.

I’ve learnt the language of your stories and you’ve learnt the language of mine, while somehow, we’ve always spoken the same language too. 

You send me a new piece of writing you wrote.
We sit across each other in the waiting room, mouths unopened.