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 6th 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--
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