© 2010 Barbara Stainman
Bill is "my host"—which makes me smile.
I am now a frequent morning guest
of the medical establishment.
He's the greeter for the land of
radiation beams and gaping gowns.
Through his doors lie the machines
That I must trust. They contain the
algorithms and calibrations that drive laser
beams to pass within millimeters of my heart.
I hope these three people are awake and
paying attention so early as they line
up my tiny medical tattoos with
their laser light show.
They quickly disappear
leaving me alone with the
"beam on" red sign and
the magically rotating machine.
It faces me with tiny
pansy decals that someone
must have liked. Hands over
my head I surrender,
unnerved and tense.
No control. Salvation in
science. Relying hopefully
on the kindness and