Head Injury Card

Task: to be where I am.
Even when I am in this solemn and absurd
role: I am still the place
where creation works on itself

— Tomas Tranströmer (trans. Robert Bly)

* Unsteadiness on the feet, dizziness

When was. Crustaceans flick tongues in the ocean’s ear;

fog clings, marbled. Metal gurney and knees pointed

at cracked plaster. Bite down on air.

Salmon-steak pink. Greased and soft-headed. Alternately

slapped and coddled, coddled and slapped — hands

like talons go for the gyroscope of the eye

* Unusual drowsiness

As if some swell beyond, below the sea’s belt

had bone-chilled us, bale-wrapped and banded

our tongues. Sentenced to stillness, a columnar,

wet-hemlock church. A sharp creak sparrows out

from the shed … slack-drum thud from the shrubs …

It starts in. Pray for its passing

* Mental confusion

Pool of shallow calm, terns two-step in chalked

mist, moist brush of spruce bough. Belong

here, adrift in amniotic flow, this is your … no —

I’m at it again, quelling the pain and gush. Semiotic

downpour, onslaught; those first quivering lungs

and no one directing the intake

* Persistent vomiting

Between brown water potholes and clapboard yellows,

lean night halls, over the sea’s breaking frown;

a brother. A beach stone. Unreliable air of the world.

Housed in hedged, Ontario towns, every shed savouring its bucked

wood, whimpering collie, cords coiled in a gas-blue

helix of meaning. Basement detritus piling and piling

* One pupil larger than the other

Soccer pitch, clipped, green. Raised on pitches of love

lower than a drone and today, brother, you and I weeping

at the touchline, grass glistens with it. Midfield, a boy

fires off a toy rocket. Zenith, where it wobbles, uncertain,

shies from the thinner reaches, burns up its last, and

shimmies down the ocean we all try to look through

* Persistent or increasingly severe headache

Further back. Feet stirruped, muzzled nurses hover

and grip. Crown of a skull slides out. Algae.

Crown of a skull like the mute in a trumpet’s bell and

blow this with your entire, blood-flushed husk. This

music, heard through fog of Demerol, does it flow

into or out from that sea-floor-soft

fontanelle?