The Mold


I am a Vitruvian Man

marked out like an anatomy lesson

in black and green dye,

something to align against the mean,

a mold made of sheets and plastic

to aim the mechanical eye

to revolve its rays around.


I can’t move because the machine

requires mathematical silence

to perform its cure, so the nurse

must tug me into place.


I get lost in the hum of the circle,

lonely bagpipes playing a dirge,

maybe Amazing Grace,

maybe Scotland the Brave,

maybe the last graceful notes

of my own dying world,

maybe it’s just noise.


Somewhere there

is a small echo of God

that almost gets lost in the creation

of algorithm and code,

smothered in my general deafness,

the unbelief that He would touch me

at my weakest point

like a biblical character.


The scan stops.

The mold is done.

The nurse lifts me gently up

making sure my feet touch the floor

before letting go.

She smiles and reminds me

that the end is just 25 treatments away.