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.

R.H. DeVault is a prose writer and poet whose work has been published in Cafe Review, New Square, The Switch Literary Magazine, and others. She will graduate from Cumberland University this spring with a degree in English, concentrating in Creative Writing, and intends to pursue an MFA in creative writing. She lives in Tennessee with her husband, Michael, and their family.