byWillow Rain©

shallow breathed,
I lay on my back
with the plastic shield
over my face.

It could be my coffin.
My throat is tight and
she hasn’t even
done the injection.

I am intensely allergic to contrast.
An Epinephrine shot waits
on the tray next to me
just in case.
My body is full of benadril.

The attendant reassures me
that she will do the push slow
and that that will help my body not respond.

I wait to see if
it will be itching discomfort
or poured fire ants
into my blood stream.

A scratching itch slides inside
the left side of my neck
and moves down.

I feel the ache inside my wrist.
My body begins to bloom
but it isn’t going to be a bad reaction,
no spontaneous sneezing,
or coughing.
I can still breath,
no burst of headache,
no ants.

The itch expands
insidious under my skin.
I get to live through it.
Loud clanks and clicks,
sound around me as the machine grinds.

Into my cunt the itching burn spreads
as mucus membranes rebel,
the inside of my ears,
my mouth and throat.
My eyes are hot hard rocks.
They will be bloodshot.
when I get up.

Miserable, I wait.
I hate this ritual.
I cannot move.
They use threats to get me here.
They use the words:
could be cancer.

They point to my head
to my nose and the small lingering scar
from where they went in once
to take death out.

My throat constricts.
The machine spits me back into the room.
as if I taste as bad as I feel.
The test is over
except for the results.
They say they will call.

I drive the two hours home alone.
my fear keeping me company,
restlessly changing radio stations.

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