The mystery of my inside is
under investigation
by a long black snake slowly fed
through my mouth that is kept open
by a rubber dummy that I bite on.

I’m lain horizontal on a couch,
raised to a convenient height,
on one side and must relax.
Else all I do is endure it:
Be, that subtle word patient.

Nurse holds my head down gently by the throat,
gently tells me how brave I am
to which I of course own up,
though, throw up would be my option
if the snake weren’t in my duodenum.

It’s not like the barium enema
when I was mostly on my back
permitted to observe the screen
where my insides were outlined in black.
The photos that the snake’s eyes take

are behind me. The specialist
remote explorer of my guts
seems to be quite excited.
He puzzles at the screen that’s
by me unseen. What’s that?

He’s been down a lot of people’s
throats in his career
like a racer knows the standard tracts
where the sharper curves are,
navigates his pet, deftly without fear.

Biopsies are needed: snake bites
in my internal jungle.
With this loot it’s time to withdraw.
Much faster out than in. And all
that long black visitant bids farewell.