Enclosure

She asks about claustrophobia for my ocular MRI,
not moving right or left, my head framed in cage-like coil.
We imprison ourselves,
throw our bodies to a point
of no return, some worse than others.

Walk in the plane that resembles a coffin,
doors close, or maybe not then but when the plane lifts off,
wheels sucking up into the plane’s belly, trapped.

Or the crime was enough to make the judge think it’s habitual.
I walk through one prison gate, closing, and then another,
often three of them clank steel and metal, or softly
slide electronically, whisper this is where
I’ll live—or die. Unable to leave.

She places the plugs in my ears, her hands gentle,
headphones over them. I see her lips moving.
She has given me a squeeze ball with a cord
to call her if I panic or need to escape.

Classical music I’ve chosen plays in the background,
Für Elise bumps in time to mechanical thumps and knocks
Metal on metal like those I’ve heard in movies.

I could be anywhere as metallic sounds strike,
beating time where she would come if I squeezed.