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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
Accident? My body launched
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
I was starving. And how could I not be?
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