By: Leila Metres, 2028
November 9, 2023
Garfield Heights, Ohio
my first mri
is at the end of a day that stretches for miles.
my dad warns me that it will be loud
like listening to cats fight at night.
in a scratchy-smooth blue gown,
i drift like snowfall onto the table.
i am not afraid.
the mri tech’s voice oozes and drips into my ears.
she lets me listen to doja cat.
i glide in and out of a dream.
i do not worry
because my pain is better now.
the results come back:
a labral tear in my hip.
November 15, 2024
Northampton, Massachusetts
at first, i can’t find anyone in the night-dark hospital.
i wonder if they closed early.
the mri tech tells if i move, even slightly
the images will be as good as smudge.
i can’t make someone drive me here again.
i can’t admit that i need help again.
so i lay down, fear filling up my veins slowly
only doja cat to keep me company.
my legs scream at me that they need to twitch.
i count each letter on the screen instead.
but i do not worry
because my pain is better now.
the results come back:
a stress reaction in my shin.
August 18, 2025
Beachwood, Ohio
i can’t tell where my body ends
and my heart begins.
like always, they give me a squeeze ball
in case i need to stop the mri.
i don’t pick doja cat this time
in case she’s become bad luck.
i am tired of being jerked back and forth
from pain to not-pain. from hope to despair.
for the first time, i worry the mouth of this machine will
swallow me like a decision.
my pain is better now
but i know better than not to worry.
i clutch the squeeze ball.
i want a year with no mri.