Bang. Then buzz. Then clang. Then doom.
A marching band in a tin cocoon.
The table slides. My breath retreats.
My muscles lock. My heart skips beats.
Don’t move, they said. I swore, I won’t,
which means, of course—I might. I don’t.
I stare straight up. The tunnel hums,
a claw pressed tight against my lungs.
A single cough could skew the test.
A breath too deep. A twitch. A jest—
each one a slip the machine might spy,
and earn the joy of one more try.
They played me jazz, or something close,
a genre best for hunting ghosts.
I’d asked for pop, a steady beat.
Instead, I got a sax in heat.
It’s not the dread that shakes my soul,
but what they seek: the mole, the hole,
the hidden smudge, the shadowed fate,
the snag inside my perfect shape.
Who knew how noisy thought can be,
beneath the dome of scrutiny.
No voice. No touch. Just phantom dread,
the weight of everything unsaid.
I thought I’d nap. But here I am,
folded beneath a giant clam.
And in its mouth, I try to be
the perfect stillness: patient, me.

————

Michael J. Kolb is a poet, archaeologist, and recovering optimist living in Colorado who walks dogs that are much more forgiving than he is. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Eunoia Review, Sky Island Journal, Moss Piglet, WestWard Quarterly, and various folders on his desktop. A few years back he survived an organ transplant and has been writing strange poems about the body, memory, and medical absurdity ever since.