Mri Iii Poem by Morgan Michaels

'OK', says the tech, 'here comes the contrast'.
Unhappily, I feel it running in.
Think it'd be hot? Nope, cold.
Cold defines the vein, enters the highway of my blood.
I listen for the wheeze, imagining what it's like to seize.
'A few minutes more', he says,
0uashing my impulse to yell- and here we go:
'Breathe in. Hold it. Relax', advises the voice
and, I do, til I get light-headed, wondering
'how much longer? How much more?

Another five minutes he slides me out, done.
Stiffly, I get up, hobble to the locker, dress
leave the gown behind folded neatly, and go.

Leaving, I pass the darkened reading room.
There is the scan, fluorescent-lit,
organs afloat in filmy, black opaque,
and, there's the resident, studying it.
'See anything? I boom.
He jumps as if found him watching porn.
'The study'll be read tomorrow'.
'What about now'? What about the organ in question
He twists some knobs. The thing swims into view.
'It looks ok', he ventures> I agree,
thank him, and descending the elevator to the door
slip into the night where it's snowing, still-
mixed with freezing rain, and hail a cab.

When we do this....