Jackhammer Sonata

They slide me into the scanner the way 
they slid you into that other tube 
and final fire. Both of us prostrate: 
one of us (or at least his organs) 
appearing on a screen, the other 
facing the future as smoke. 
I feel like tobacco in a cigarette:
 
compressed, claustrophobic, 
ready to ignite. Your cigarette, 
mother, lodged elegantly between 
your second and third fingers… 
The doctor is now checking 
for tumors in my pancreas. 
The nurse asks, “Doing OK in there?” 

As I listen to the machine’s 
jackhammer sonata (it sounds 
like aliens trying to teach us 
a new alphabet), I can almost 
see you walking down the street, 
holding me, showing me off, 
asking a stranger for a light.

Ralph James Savarese | Wave
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)