MRI
Midnight thunder
at the breast bone,
a fist on a lover’s locked door
I pretend not to hear —
try instead to breathe deep, sleep,
and prepare for the nurse’s next call,
for my torso to flood
with absolute cold
at the sound of her voice,
until my guts are a scrim
of liverish ice
that takes all I’ve got
to warm and disperse
with the faltering flame
of blue calm —
this, not the scans,
the samples and needles,
my blood count or cell stains,
is the test.
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