Talking About Bodies My girlfriend is a radiologist who talks about what she sees inside bodies. Men with lines of cancer that drag through their colons like chains hanging from the hitch of a truck that diesels its way towards civilization. Or a pock of emphysema. My girlfriend says she enjoys using machines that show color, because, as she explains: “Emphysema is brown like unmolested dirt. Free from insecticide. Only it’s killing you.” We lay on the couch when she comes home with the History Channel on mute and talk about bodies. I ask what she thinks the inside of my body looks like. She answers, “A magazine. Full of bright vibrant colors. There are people talking about fashion in your lungs. Editorials about Yo La Tengo in your liver. A dammed river in your penis. Your intestines meet at an impass, like a two belts tied together to fit around a waist.” She says my brain is a rain cloud hovering over a body of water. Reciprocal. I like to imagine myself carrying on a conversation with her behind an x-ray screen. I wonder if she can see inside the words I’m saying. I wonder if words have an anatomy.