The worst thing about an MRI isn’t the claustrophobia. It’s the terrible racket that accompanies the claustrophobia, roughly equivalent to the combined noise of chainsaws, barking dogs, Chinese gongs, and motorcycles without mufflers. Meanwhile, the worst thing about undergoing a CT scan with contrast is the bottle of radioactive dye, in original, raspberry, or lemon-lime flavors, they make you drink. A shadow on a scan can indicate cancer. I have about a 60 percent chance of surviving five years. Maybe you have noticed at the beach that when a wave withdraws, tiny air holes open in the sand. It’s only right, I think, that under the surface there be a hidden world swarming with ghost creatures at home in the dark.
Howie Good's latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.