Drain
By Andrew Sutherland
(after he flushes my antiretroviral medication)
for the toilet, which remains.
You: the afterlife of meds. This ever-present porcelain event. A body
made, and then un-made. How many centuries of public works – new
intimacies for moving water – before the moment my one-month reserves
are tipped into that rivermouth? You are anti-poetry; but you hold it when
you must. The proof is in your soaking absence. Imagine little whirlpools.
How swiftly next days are re-sequenced into pipe. How the body must be
partly made of drain. You are anti-memory; running ocean in a shallow
bowl. Does anything still live in you, except dead weapons meant to
come alive in me? To see a waterfalling future; and to resist. To quietly
replace myself. Goldfish, once more made to swim. I surround you with
preparations. I so long to be an act of service. You are anti-atmosphere;
you: the transformation. You: slow maintenance of the same –
and lately I have had this feeling that the longer the living goes, the harder it has been to remember if I’ve taken that day’s meds or not. Mornings sliding out from me. For the first few years each pill must
have felt so decisive, but for some time now – since the flush, at least
– I seem to be swallowing up the day before I can process any sense
of certainty that I have done so. I’ve taken to writing myself a note
the moment my medication hits my mouth, and now my apartment is covered in post-its. Monday, yes and Tuesday, yes and Wednesday,
on it goes … but that’s time for you, isn’t it? Time ceaselessly
confirms itself. And when it overfills: to drain.
Andrew Sutherland (he/they) is a Queer poz (PLHIV) writer and performance-maker based in Western Australia. His poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction can be found in a range of publications, including Overland, Island, Cordite, Westerly, Running Dog, Portside Review, and EXHALE: an anthology of Queer Singapore voices (Math Paper Press), and his debut poetry collection, Paradise (Point of Transmission) was published in August 2022 with Fremantle Press. His recent performance works include Mother of Compost, Salome delta, small & cute oh no, and a line could be crossed and you would slowly cease to be. He is grateful to reside on Whadjuk Noongar land.