patricia Kirkpatrick


The brain, like the earth, lies in layers.
Floaters dart and punch. I see the field.
My face stays numb. Keep your eye on the target.
Click the button when a light appears.
Last night I read “So little evidence is left
of what had vanished.” I can’t always follow directions.
The tumor pressed a lobe, charging
the amygdala, emotional core of the self.
In school they taught us that soil covers core
and mantle; mythology explains creation
and change. Now age drapes childhood;
my hair, the incision. I see a light but forget
to click. I didn’t remember dreams for a year.
How I’ve changed may not be apparent.