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.