Author: Elise Totten Binnie

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.

By: Shawn Galligan, 2026

In the 1950s electric lights were inserted
into the rock of a 5,200 year-old passage tomb.
Drill-tip met stone, obliterated it in preparation
for the stringing of thin wires
and on the left, a fuse box,
installed amidst the prehistoric rock.
Mild discomfiture in the cheery voice:

This is one of those things that has to happen.

In the 1800s, steel knives left their scratches.
The blades of young men (Denmark, Belgium, France),
tiny imperfections in stone that will stand forever.
You imagine their desire for legacy;
men always yearn to mark the world
and perhaps the ancient world was enough.
A passing thought, while looking away:

This is one of those things that always happens.

We are warned, then for a moment
every light is extinguished
total darkness, exit shape, exit color
form reduced past even suggestion
and you finally see the tomb as it is.
Absence, peace, a ritual that survives,
a hand that reaches, brushes, holds.

It is a kindness to know that this will happen.

By: Shreya Athalye, 2027

After torrential rains,
My scent spoke in petrichor,

And as the memories clung to my skin,
I wore this metaphor
of being soaked,
Through my bones
went the blows,
And out of me spilled the blood.
And I tried to keep my expression neutral,
As any good girl would.
And if this violence ever helped me,
I don’t really remember.
But I can’t deny that I’m mesmerized by the colors.
I had a dream once,
Where I collected vital organs.
Watching a heart pulsing might explain why I still live.
But at the cost of becoming an expert in all that is morbid?
I dream of surgery, so sterile and vibrant.
The adrenaline rush to outrun a flatline,
Trying to avoid the paperwork of being coded.
But oh, dreams cannot be disinfected.
So I bathe in these images,
That I cannot stomach with my eyes open.
After torrential rains
Blood becomes the mist of petrichor.
I would be lying if I said I’ve never been here before.