The Halo

C. Dale Young

In the paintings left to us

by the Old Masters, the halo,

a smallish cloud of light, clung

to the head, carefully framed the faces

of mere mortals made divine.

Accident? My body launched

by a car's incalculable momentum?

It ended up outside the car. I had no idea then

what it was like to lose days, to wake

and find everything had changed.

Through glass, this body went

through the glass window, the seatbelt

snapping my neck. Not the hanged man,

not a man made divine but more human.

I remember those pins buried in my skull,

the cold metal frame surrounding my head,

metal reflecting a small fire, a glow. All

was changed. In that bed, I was a locust.

I was starving. And how could I not be?

I, I . . . I am still ravenous.