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Steve Gehrke After the urine test, the bloodwork, that little flume inside the tube, after I was browsed like a showroom, after the ultrasound, its wand like a caver’s lamp, after the lulling whoosh-whoosh, the blurred mysteries on the screen like equations written in chalk and sloppily erased, after the doctor again asked how much I peed and when, did my ankles swell, did I taste metal on my tongue, did my sweat smell like urine when I exercised, did I itch a lot, get short of breath, did my muscles ache, did I forget things easily, did my mind go blank, did I feel like I was floating above myself, did wounds heal easily or slow, and how long have I had that acne on my chest, after the toy hammers to the knee, after the stethoscopes and tourniquets and urine cups, after being examined again like a roughed-up boxer, like a horse for sale, after Mom and I drove to the hospitals at the U of M, after we roved