by Susan Barry-Schulz

 

When I finally get my MRI report back the results
are unremarkable. No acute fracture. No soft tissue

mass. No evidence of disproportionate atrophy.
Vertebral body heights are well maintained;

lumbar disc contours preserved. Minimal this & that.
A quick nod to the exquisite forces of gravity plus

time and their combined inescapable consequences.
But nothing hitting a nerve. No indication

of anticipatory grief. No sign of a swallowed
sorrow. No traces of shrapnel buried in the heavy

muscle of the heart. No evidence of a course-
grained granite boulder wedged deep in the marrow

of the sternum. No suggestion of a foreign body
clamped across the frozen dome of the diaphragm.

No shadows of a crescent wrench cinched
tight across the base of the buzzing skull. Outside

the cool tube the technician inquires about my musical
preferences. No seventies, I say. I was a child

of the 70s. I don’t want to go back to those days.
Head-phoned and holding the squeezable panic

button close to my chest, I’m whisked in and out
of a thick thudding gleaming. On leaving, I want

to tell him I think it might be the undetectable
that’s killing me. What we can’t see. A holy

host of invisible spinning matter conspiring
to bring me to my knees.

 

 

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Susan Barry-Schulz grew up just outside of Buffalo, New York. She is a licensed physical therapist living with chronic illness. Her poetry has appeared in SWWIM, Barrelhouse online, Rogue Agent, Shooter Literary Magazine, Bending Genres, Iron Horse Literary Review, West Trestle Review, and in many other print and online journals and anthologies. You can find her on Twitter at @suebarryschulz.