What the DVT Loves about the MRI

By Mary Christine Delea

is its cool detachment. The machine has
nothing to lose or gain no matter
what is discovered. The MRI, all metal
and lights, knows only its own sounds,

noises that she with/in this body keeps
changing her mind about,
what she imagines she is hearing.
Underwater.
No, the moon.
No, a cave with water running through it.
The DVT understands:
she is grasping for movement.
She wants to make sense
of this thing—deep vein thrombosis—
that took her so close
to death.

Growth is a type of movement.
So is death.
Even with diagnosis and medication,
the DVT crept up past the hip,
crawled down to the foot.
And now, the MRI

is its only fan, like a paparazzi stalking
a celebrity whose fame
no longer exists. The MRI helps keep the DVT
a star, and its creators—arthritis, genetics,
bad surgery—will have to wait to get
anyone’s attention until the MRI,
shining in the darkened room,
emitting the babble of stalled blood,
says the DVT is gone.