CARDIAC MRI

The sun sluices over the window,
panning for gold. The sky’s purpling

with a strain that can only 
be mine. I’m holding my breath.

I’m thinking about sunset as a verb, 
slow death. How one can 

sunset a product but never sunrise it 
back to life. The scanner 

is whiter than a Ryman exhibit. 
Debility is a language I

never learned to speak. What to call 
the board, the vulgar cords snaking 

toward my chest? What to call my heart 
if it somehow fails? My heart.

The scanner sings. My heart clinks 
like an egg in boiling water.