The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2009

Four Concussion Sonnets

I.

The mind is what the brain does

whether I want it to or not,

flipping the little electric was

buttons, she was, she was, she thought.

Most intimate friend, most alien glob,

nothing I can see or hear or squeeze.

White matters not to this trembling slob—

return to me, lie with me, please.

Bowl, firm and sloshing, make good.

Make beautiful. Make sane.

The book says without receptors
the brain cannot feel pain,

so why don’t you feel like you should?

We are in room after room without doors.

II.

We are in room after room without doors.

Tea, email, nap, TV, maybe some knitting.

My objects don’t abandon me, whores
to my fears, abetters in this unwitting

waiting. There is no pain if we don’t move,

brain and I, don’t ask us if we like it.
We don’t want to know if you approve,

if you try beauty, we’ll doubt and deny it.

The computer makes its funny hum

my ears buzz like downed electric lines

milk on the surface of the tea congeals to scum

I heat it up again a dozen times.

The doctor is unsure, my mind affects her nerves

the way a practiced driver overshoots the curves.

III.

The way a practiced driver overshoots the curves
on a dark night – in the rain – but still holds on,

hand steady on the wheel – his drink – he swerves

around a dog – won’t slosh – or panicked fawn –

out of the cup. That’s how my brain works now.

I’ve been here in the past. Don’t like this road.

There used to be an orchard, birds, a cow,

the yellow mustard bloomed, it never snowed,

except in 1976, the year

I learned to drive in Lucky’s parking lot.

I hear the whining and the shifting gears
and his sharp voice, my father good at what he taught.

But here I’m sitting in a different car, it’s not the same,

I’m at the grocery store but can’t remember why I came.

IV.

I’m at the grocery store but can’t remember

why I came. The rules are changed. Mother

of god, this is not fun. It’s September –

it’s getting away, another day another

day. The weather has cooled off, the light

at six thirty hits the maple tree outside

this window now. I’m still not right

has left that song, and followed me inside.

I’m living pills to books, the kids are freaked,

my wedding anniversary’s tomorrow.

The head CT shows no CSF leaked

into spaces where I don’t feel joy or sorrow.

It’s still my mind, but I don’t trust its name.

Lazy son-of-a-bitch, get back in the game.

Jennifer Swanton Brown