The MRI Machine is Like a Toaster
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Radiation warms me, wafts over me like the smell of the garlic loaf that warms in the machine
like how I, part machine, warm in the machine. Bang bang screech. The antiseptic music inside
the tunnel pummels my earplugs inside my headphones like my stepdad’s knife’s edge scratching
over crust. Wubwubwubwubwub. There is a dot on the top of the tube that does not move.
I do not move. I am burning like bread burning in a toaster oven, burning inside my skin
where radiation pierces me like spines of stone. Whirs and bangs and pounding pulse;
blood pumping through my veins. The technician pops me out. Crisped, I unplug my plastic tubes
of saline and contrast. The cold floor slides under me like butter. The doctor orders another test.
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About the Author
Makena Metz is an LA native who writes for the page, screen, and stage. She has a MFA in Creative Writing and MA in English from Chapman University’s dual degree program. Makena is a proud member of DGA, ASCAP, WIA, Maestra, and the SCL. Find her work on Coverfly, NPX, and follow her @makenametz on Tiktok, IG, FB, Twitter, and check out makenametz.com.