We are divided into compartments,
separated by taut membranes,
glistening planes of connective tissue,
Today this is damaged,
anaesthetized, surgically explored
your diaphragm is a torn curtain hanging
and like a peep show I’m drawn to look behind.
In the absence of pressure lungs hesitate
to inflate, do their best to conceal
the frantic convulsions at your core,
the struggle for rebirth every second.
I look perhaps longer than I should
at the shuddering flesh, the labouring
beauty, then I pull the curtain back over
and suture the secret inside.