The | Concussion

Violence is a marker
of the condition. 

A series of questions becomes diagnosis. The animal
backs into a corner. Car crash.

Like the edge of a canyon, there are barriers.
A dark room. Silence. Ear muffs for eyes. 

People gather in twos and threes. In this city
one must stand on one foot to go anywhere, 

one must order everything from two menus at once.
Motion is the literal life of your party B

A B A B

D B A B

Surely you will pass through houses again.
For now it’s ceiling darkness and wall darkness.

From the couch, you feel language 
organizing. 

Bounce this ball. Name animals
that begin with B. Brain.

The letter B is trapped between mind and skull,
a tiny separation, like flowers along a sidewalk—brain.

The swirl behind your ear is almost charming.
It’s also taxing, like prayer, or baseball. 

Bats. Barracuda. Burundi.
A pillow. The ship bumps against deep space. 

You move the mouse over the word “daisies.”

Good.

This is your doctor speaking.
We don’t even know how Tylenol works. 

He leans closer and taps his own skull.  

CHRISTOPHER GAUMER’s  writing appears in The Rumpus, McSweeney’s, The Southern Review, Best Microfiction 2019, and elsewhere. He won the 2019 Poetry Society of Vermont’s National Poetry Prize and is a founding director of the Randolph College MFA program, where he also serves as managing editor of Revolute magazine.