The breeding suite’s one porthole makes up for

the insulary murmur of discard

chute, nutri-station, sonic cleansing wand:

Her reflection, gazing back in weaving 

triplicate, starred, upon triple-paned fused

silicate, a cracked tourmaline Beyond,

at herself gutted, forms three Fates fated

to issue from a single grieving; rules:

“You’re fine. Now... just repeat that evermore”.

Oh, if only it were impossible:  

Her mate-match, reassigned, before leaving

advised, “You can too hold on to what you 

lost. See? Someday, maybe we’ll be mated

again. Waiting is easy.” But it’s hard.