The disease and I have reached an understanding of the pace,
The specific acceleration and the space,
Between the treatment and the progression and the line,
Of what the oncologist refers to as my timeline.
Terminal is the word for both the thing that ends,
And the speed at which the thing that ends descends,
And I’ve been living in the terminal for long enough,
To know the territory of the slow and gruff.
Terminal velocity, the falling at the rate,
That gravity and drag have reached their stable state,
Terminal velocity, the neither fast nor slow,
Of the falling that has found its specific flow,
Terminal velocity, the speed at which I’m moving now,
Terminal velocity, the trajectory and how,
The life inside the terminal is still a life being lived,
Terminal velocity, and everything it’s given.
The oncologist says stable with the word applied,
To something moving in a direction I can’t guide,
Or stop, only modulate the rate with the pills,
That do what they do against the thing that kills.
Stable means the rate of change is manageable and known,
Not that the condition has been fixed or overthrown,
I’ve learned to love the stable the way I love the clear,
The bloodwork that shows nothing new to fear.
I want the record to show that I was not diminished,
By the diagnosis, that I wasn’t finished,
When the oncologist drew the trajectory and line,
I want the record to show that the life was mine.
The terminal velocity of the falling body reaches,
The steady state and then the body teaches,
Itself to live inside the speed and find the grace,
Of the falling at the known and measured pace.