They Don’t Bury You In Gowns Like These
I’m in a long, bright white tunnel,
I pretend I’m not in a coffin.
A prince whispers in my ear;
no, it’s actually Prince –
These paper shorts feel scratchy
and the way they are slightly
twisted off-center makes me
glad they are temporary.
Isn’t everything temporary?
Let’s go crazy.
Hold still – as still as you can.
It’s the disembodied tenor voice
of a digital wizard
Medicinal drums of the MRI
bang around me, humming
around the spaces in oversized
headphones – my auditory shield.
Magnetic eyes scan my body
Let’s go crazy.
I wish I had worn socks.
There is a scuff mark in my
light tunnel, depreciating
its ethereal value, a fulsome bone white.
It’s a coffin again. I pretend
I am at peace. I can hear the machine
covering me with dirt.
Let’s go crazy.
I’m not ready to go yet. Scan again.
Eyes closed, I attempt to make a human
connection to the machine, as if
trying to lay myself bare –
vulnerable to its heated eyes.
The Kind of Heat That Stays
I think it must be 100 degrees outside. I sit on the part of the graduated sidewalk where my little feet barely brush the gravel. It’s the closest I can get to shade outside during extended recess. The shade cuts straight down the center of me from my head to my shorts. The canopy above my head doesn’t extend past the sidewalk that its under it, so everything from the cuff of my shorts to my feet is still in the sun. I feel the roughness of the concrete underneath my thighs, and I have to be careful not to reach too far with my feet, or I’ll get scratches on the backs of my legs. My hair, swept up in a ponytail, feels hot to the touch on the crown of my head. The tip of it is damp from touching the center of my back, which is wet from sweat. I look out across the field of wilted grass at the tall, metal slide. The only kids who are crazy enough to go near that frying pan of a slide are the stupid boys who make bets with each other to see who is willing to sit on it the longest before yelping out in pain from the heat. I see wavy, squiggly lines coming off the slick surface. My little sister had broken her arm on that slide when she was in kindergarten. At the bottom of the long, skinny poles that kept it in the ground were puffy mounds of cement, like they were stuck through large piles of whipped cream that had frozen. She fell from the ladder and hit her wrist on one of those piles. It wasn’t whipped cream. All the dandelions are long gone and picked over by people making wishes. It’ll be a couple of weeks before the next round of wishes can be made. Next went the clover in the fields, and we weren’t allowed to go to the fence line by the honeysuckle since Brandon got stung by a bee while attempting to eat the nectar from the yellow flowers. Four-leaf clovers were out there, but it was way too hot to lie in an open field looking for them.
Today, I focus on the gravel. I practice writing my name in the loose pea gravel with a lot of concentration. If I look up, I will see the snow cone truck parked about 30 feet away. I will see Marcie, Jay, and Mark waiting in line for their second snow cones. Even Sandra, who had peed her pants on the playground in first grade, got to go back for seconds. The grasshoppers that made all the racket when they flew made a big deal out of the heat. I wasn’t going to, though. Once or twice, I feel the sweeping breeze of air conditioning when a teacher or student comes out of the double doors close by. It feels amazing on my back and the back of my arms. Nikki offered me her wilting paper funnel of ice when she drank all of the flavor juice that was in it before it had a chance to melt. I was grateful for it and had eaten the ice as slowly as I could without letting it get reduced to just water. I took the little cup inside three times and filled it with water from the water fountain. Each time, the strawberry flavor was less and less noticeable. Mostly, I just wanted people to see that I had one. They didn’t care. There wasn’t much shade on the playground, and all the trees are taken up by the big kids. A few kids kicked their feet to get higher on the swing, trying to make a breeze, but they soon gave up, not willing to give the effort it takes to keep moving. Besides, the air feels like hot, dog breath. A lot of people don’t know how heavy the heat is. When you carry it around a lot, it kinda slides down your face and makes you frown. It bows your back, and you take it with you everywhere. Makes your socks droop, your hands sticky, and your eyes tired. It’ll make you drink from the water fountain until your belly is swollen. That kind of heat that seems to single you out makes you feel like it was especially made for you. Pee-pants Sandra knows that kind of heat, I think. Sometimes I see it on her face too. And when I look out over the crowd of faces, paper funnels, and classmates with cherry and orange smiles, I can’t help but wonder if there is something different about me; Something that draws the heat to me and away from everyone else. I wonder if any of them really ever noticed it. Because when you’re in a life of comfort, why would you give the heat a second thought?