The Quest I Cannot Speak

This poem is pretty weird, as it relates to my husband having to go through regular x-rays, and every time I sit in the waiting area, I find myself wondering about the technician! Who are they beneath the scrubs and the neutral smile? What are they thinking when they gently position a person who's hurting, or when they see something that might change someone's life? Are they secretly longing for adventure?

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Every day I stare through skin and shadow,

finding fractures like riddles left behind by lives I’ll never know,

the quiet trail of cracks that tell of falls, of fights, of fears no one says out loud,

and I wonder if they see me as just a technician, just a blur at the edge of their pain,

never knowing that I once believed I was meant for a quest,

that I used to dream of canyons and lanterns glowing with forgotten magic.

I keep a photograph in my locker,

two women on horseback with a torch raised against the dusk,

the canyon breathing around them like it was alive and listening,

and every time I press the cold plate to someone's back,

I hear that old longing flare again,

like a whisper sewn into the hum of the machine.

The serenity I imagined in ancient places,

in ruins where spells once settled like dust,

now feels more like the quiet between scan results,

the hush before someone asks, “Is it bad?”

and I have to answer with only my silence.

Adventure, I have learned, is not always flame and wonder,

sometimes it is holding still

while everything inside you wants to run.