Subdural hematoma

Thank you Dr. Gandhivarma Subramaniam

Squeezed into pain's tight grip,

my son finally agrees to an ER visit, where

images of his brain's convoluted architecture

show it pushed aside

by blood's gleaming fist.

Seated in waiting room furniture

thickly layered with other people's prayers,

we pass time knuckled, blank

while neurosurgeons saw open his skull.

I think of the girl who fell

10,000 feet from a broken plane

into Peru's jungle. Tightly clustered trees

cushioned her, their limbs breaking

to set her on the forest floor

still safely strapped in her seat.

Wearing white sandals,

a frilly dress

she walked along a stream 11 days

to find rescuers. At first, those men

feared she might be a river ghost.

I want to strap my own son in

so miraculous a seat.

Drop him in a current

where time rushes backward,

before a guy late for his shift

at a donut shop

makes an illegal left turn,

before my son's helmet hits the car,

before my son's body

skids down the pavement,

before vessels begin leaking

into the dear familiar head

I first glimpsed in the birthing room.

Benjamin wakes, blue eyes watery

against ghostly pale skin,

map of a dark river

etched deep across his forehead.

He turns to us, jesting

“No drain bramage!”

to let us know

he's out of the jungle.

• © 2018 American Academy of Neurology