Issue #28.3 A Poem by Kayla Beth Moore
The Hounded Brain
I. THE DAY IN QUESTION
The friendly beast and I went walking on a Monday afternoon. We saw a hound we’d never met before in a place we visit often.
I remember this: the stiffness of the grass, tufts of fur drifting like snow against the negative space of pavement, thinking, this should be over by now.
Then, a warm dripping on my shoulder, a pileated woodpecker beating its brains against a high pine trunk, and wrens furious in the firebush.
II. STAPLES
She growled when they entered her scalp. This was more surprising to her than the pain.
It was the sound her father made when he tackled a stall door from its hinges
to free a horse who, spooked, had rammed the door and was trapped in its clamped jaw.
It was the sound of strength gathering to a protest.
Eight tiny bites of necessary metal and her body in a rage she’d never known.
The sound entered a vacuum and changed nothing.
Her father lay for a long time after panting in the dust.
III. AFTER THE ACCIDENT, A DREAM
Dr. Phillips isn’t wearing shoes. His office is by a swift river and there are many windows.
He sits at a desk. I am cross-legged on the old couch. He says: Tell me what’s the matter.
I open my mouth. I stop. I try again. I look at my knees.
Watch, I say. Our Father who art in … hallowed be thy … thy …
He nods. He gets up. He walks to the window.
Tell me why you are afraid. Because I am a fly with one wing walking.
IV. THE CONCUSSION CLINIC
Saddle, apple, carpet, bubble, elbow.
Apple, carpet, elbow, saddle, ____.
Backwards.
Saddle, apple, carpet, ____ ____.
Try more slowly.
sad - dle, car - pet, ____ ____.
They’re trochees!
Balance on this mat.
Where did you park today?
Apple! Apple, carpet, saddle ____.
With what foot would you kick a soccer ball?
What did you eat for breakfast?
Pour mon petit-dejeuner?
Recite the months backwards.
Elbow, apple, carpet, _____.
Follow the red dot.
Bubble! Bubble, apple _____.
Were there any witnesses?
V. THE RETURN TO LEARN FLOW CHART
The Return to Learn Flow Chart says that if after thirty minutes of concentration symptoms manifest (dizziness, changes in vision, pressure in the head, hopelessness, suicidality), then one must return to Step Zero: Complete Cognitive Rest.
One must always be cognizant of one’s symptoms so that one does not: operate heavy machinery, make Big Life Decisions, send Important Emails, or in any way strain the cerebrum.
One should call the hospital immediately if one exhibits Serious Symptoms: failure to recognize loved ones, bleeding from the ears, incessant vomiting, or loss of vision.
One should not be alarmed by Unremarkable Symptoms: fogginess, inexplicable rage, slight amnesia, difficulty balancing. One will break things accidentally. One will see bright lights in dark rooms.
One should follow the Return to Learn Steps, and with enough Complete Cognitive Rest one will Be Back to Normal soon. Soon: forty-eight hours, eight weeks, or a couple of years, depending on a variety of Complicated Factors.
VI. AFTER THE ACCIDENT, SPEAKING
Sentences are archeology projects! My wordifacts lie deep in the cerebral hardpan.
Chiseling is tedious, and people are watching.
*
It’s Yahtzee up there! You never know what combination of phonemes will land in what order, and the sorting occurs under the running of a stupid, beeping clock.
*
All my words are paper wads! The wads accumulate in piles.
The crinkles will not straighten, and once the paper is flattened,
the ink is blotted, and the penmanship— that of a lazy, fat-handed, third-grader!
VII. RINSE
I never felt as close to you as when your mother washed my hair.
Three days after the accident she warmed distilled water in the microwave,
draped a towel across my shoulders, and worked through the bloody mats.
She moved slowly, freeing single strands, cupping her hands to shield the wound.
She hummed while her fingertips massaged my tender scalp.
She moved with confidence, with the memory of bathing your infant body.
Her fingertips in tiny spirals across my crown. Her humming. The water ran brown then rust.
She patted my forehead dry when the water ran clear.
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Originally from Tellico Plains, TN, Kayla Beth Moore holds degrees from Yale Divinity School and the MFA program for creative writing at the University of Florida. Her essays, stories, and poems have appeared in various outlets including Plough, Lit Magazine, and Ballast Journal. She was the founding curator of the library at Grace Farms in New Canaan, CT. She lives in Atlanta, GA, with her family in an old house with a big porch.
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