Head Injury
outside the Ascended Masters Temple, 1987
I wake to a blue void
flecked with birds, clouds
smeared like spackle. My mouth
tastes metal. Cicadas somewhere
make strange rising noises, the
grubs, anchored in shade,
split along their backs. Grass
clippings prick my skin. My head
sticky with blood, I smell mildew,
willow tree pollen, tar. I sit up
at the far end of the parking lot
outside my father’s church
as chanting bursts from open
windows. His voice is in there
but I can’t pick it out. Cicadas.
My head throbs. I hear the sounds
they sing to make their hearts
split open, to let the light inside.
CHRISTOPHER MICHEL has an MFA from Syracuse University, and he received a Fulbright in 2006 to translate poetry from the Republic of Georgia. His work has been published, among other places, in Anatomy & Etymology as well as Free Lunch, where it was nominated for a Pushcart prize. He currently lives in Brooklyn’s secret Chinatown, as a stay-at-home dad.