Head Case, and: Sometimes the Body Gets Tired, and: What Can I Do?

Head Case

They shaved the man’s head and drew lines with the Sharpie. The whole cranial cap would have to come off, they explained, and it would remain off until the swelling receded.

“Where do you put it?” he asked, envisioning a bevel-edged disk of bone in a jar of clear fluid.

“In your tummy,” they said. There were five of them, in surgical scrubs, their masks already up. “It’s the perfect environment; the bone doesn’t deteriorate and your body won’t reject it. We just nestle it in there.” “Won’t I start digesting it?”

“We don’t put it in the actual stomach. Just the thoracic cavity. It just nestles in there, like a flask hidden in your sock drawer.”

“Oh,” said the man.

“We’ll reattach it once your new brain settles in. The lid just clicks shut, like the battery door on a remote. And then we’ll have you thinking clearly again. With the brain of a white man,” said one woman. She wore glasses with expensive frames and bore an air of natural authority. “Your level of unearned confidence will go through the roof.”

There was a delicate pause.

“There’s one more thing,” she said.

“What is it?” he asked.

They all looked at one another, until the woman with the glasses said, “Well, this is the first time your surgeon has done this.”

“I thought you were the surgeon,” he said.

“No. He’s new. But his reflexes are said to be excellent,” she continued. “He’s only eight. But he’s tall for his age, and very deft with a cranial saw.”

“Deft?” repeated the man.

“That’s the word his teacher used.”

“I see,” said the man.

There was another long pause as the man considered what had just been said. “Wait,” said the man. “How old did you say he was?”

“Eight. And he has a peanut allergy,” she added. “So no peanuts, no candy at all. Definitely no pbj. No Clif Bars, even. If it’s on your breath his esophagus could swell shut. Trust me, that wouldn’t be good. Also, he’s blind.”

“What—!?”

“But he’s very gifted at smelling tumors,” continued the woman, “and his fingers are as soft as the belly skin of a pregnant ewe.”

“What the HELL?” said the man, and they all started laughing behind their green masks.

Two minutes later, the woman with the glasses was still chuckling. “Isn’t this the best medicine?” said the woman. “Laughter? I mean, Zany, right?”

She wiped away a tear. “This is cutting-edge protocol. To be honest, you don’t even have cancer. This is mostly just to help me write my book. On the healing nature of transgressive humor.” She paused, then gently touched his shaved head. “But don’t worry, we gave you the haircut for free.”

Sometimes the Body Gets Tired

of filtering everything.

  Alcohol and cigarettes, of course. Butalso anger.      My kidneys are currentlysodden with grief. There is a quiet sadness thatoften settles over me a few hours after my coffee.          Deathseems almost a happiness to the man with one foot

nailed to the floor and a ravenous wolf at the door.Watching your children grow finely strong        as the pouchesbeneath your eyes collapse into wrinkled wineskinsis a special form of yoga.      One part of you stretchesup toward sky thin as smoke while the other rootssolid in the dark earth, chomping like a worm.

What Can I Do?

I thought about writing  a poem for you.

    But you weren’t around—

I thought you were in the next room.

But when I walked in, the room was still.

Maybe you came here and started readingwhile I was still in the midst of consideringwhat other words I might use to talk to you.

The thing is, the other words were better.

  (It was almost like  I’d excavated them from a quarry.)

They had a rather remarkable sturdiness.

   (A...