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Poetry
by Danny Jacobs
X-Ray Machine
Offspring of periscope and arthropod,
thorax chandeliered from the hospital
ceiling, it takes the measure of my misstep:
the roll, the jolt, twang of fibular ligament
reverbing through the nervous system’s
dance hall. Double-chinned with lymph
at the crux of shin and dorsal, golf ball
testing the sewn limits of argyle:
my taxed and newly-wrought ankle
under the crosshairs, this single focused eye—
hypochondriac’s tech like a man-sized
crustacean, escapee from a Nevada
research facility, all dangled tube
and exoskeleton. I grip the lead apron
like a scared kid with his bedsheet and hope
for the best. Once done, I’ll let the porter
push the wheelchair, an impressionist’s
sunset emergent on my pale sockless
foot. The x-ray machine waits for buried
quarry—dark spots hidden like truffles
in the wet loam and twisted root of vitals.
[Distillate © HA&L + Danny Jacobs | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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