What can I say? The heart has a physical hold; in my case, the heart. The nurse wrote STAT on top of my admittance sheet, something I had seen in movies. I forgot for what it stood. She takes all that. I took all that. I went to the hospital, blue columned building, and wandered the halls, was told where to go, and waited at the right spot, where to go. Radiology was kept dark. They pulled a white sheet over me and then they pulled it down again, and spread a cool gel over me and ran the hand of the machine, metal mouthed, over me hard, and said it wouldn’t hurt but it did, and told me to breathe, because I had forgotten. I don’t know what the shapes were. The machine made soft whirs. I couldn’t see the screen; they wouldn’t let me. They were looking—for what in my legs? Babiesmy friends joked, laughing high and thin in the cool night later, when later, it felt good to laugh. I don’t know. The knotted vessel, the tied bow, the ink spot, my love for my friends, my hurt for my love, Where Soul Meets Body: the Death Cab for Cutie Song, my drive, my want, my writing, the lead in my veins, the hope, the hunger. The test was negative. Whatever that means. It means I can fly. It means they let me go, asking, is there anyone here with you?
No, I said. I came with myself.
