Doppler Effect

At the heart hospital, I lie on the imaging
      table, looking up at the bland ceiling 
while the technician gets ready to slick
      gel on one end of the transducer. In this
soundproofed room, we don't hear the traffic
      thickening on Brambleton. But when she engages
the Doppler, waves of gray appear on the bottom
      of the screen and a whooshing sound pulses near
my ear— like wind across a beach, waves coming in
      and eddying around the twin islands of
my kidneys. The vascular ultrasound machine
      has opened this window into my own interior
and suddenly I'm reminded of how my body can feel 
      spacious or cluttered in ways I forget 
on a daily basis— like when I struggle with 
      the waistband of a pair of old jeans, or feel 
the hot burn of spice travel from my mouth, down 
      through my esophagus. The technician tells me 
to hold my breath and I do, while on the screen, 
      something flickers and pulses, still keeping time 
in spite of me. Blue, she tells me, is the track of
      blood flowing away; and red, toward the organ. 
I am traveler and terrain, vessel and cargo, 
      the untranslatable rendered legible.