Head Injury

 

Bent forward with my focus on

a sticky stain on the kitchen counter

I raised up and caught my head

on the corner of an open cabinet door.

 

At first I thought I had been hit by

a sniper’s bullet in the cranium, but

realized that was stupid. No,

it was definitely a flint arrow

filed to a deadly point,

dipped in poison, and fired

from the bow of an Indian warrior,

a tribe enraged that the white man was trying

to take over their ancestors’ subdivision and clubhouse.

 

Perhaps I was delirious, or

maybe I was thinking clearer than ever,

clearer than before the moment in the 6^th grade when

I walked into Russ Queen taking a practice swing

in the batter’s box.

 

I vaguely remember the impact of

wood and bone colliding at the intersection

in a sound that made the third base coach throw up.

 

My mother was working the concession stand

so she missed seeing my head

pull out in front of a Louisville Slugger, but the screams

of “Frances, Frances, it’s Ramon!”

catapulted her over obstacles and onlookers.

 

The slight scar under my right eye

is from the stitches. Healed pretty well, I think,

which may be more than I’ll be able to say

for this new hole bore into my skull.

 

Perhaps I’m delirious but I’m thinking

that if the doctor has started this pioneer surgery

on my cerebral cortex without benefit of anesthesia

he might as well finish it, because I’m quite comfortable

lying here on the linoleum, though it’s hard to hold still

while our fox terrier is licking my face, and

I’m walking through a field of daisies in

hippy clothes, singing a Joni Mitchell song

to a caterpillar stretched out on my index finger.

 

I’m just a little delirious, but the dog

thinks I probably have a concussion,

but what does he know??

He probably just wants me out of the way so

he can have the chew toys all to himself.

 

--rLp--