they cracked a panel
free, easy as any
china, tiny saucer of you
that held, like a fossil,
an impression
lifted from the sediment—
a cheek so charred it
felt woolen, tiny
fibers curling beneath
your eye, pressed
against the dash, gummy
with heat, sharp scent
of gasoline needling
your head, punctures
where light trickled in
and out again. how
will it get through
now? through that
titanium sheath,
bolted to the black
inside you, the shield
you tried for years
to whiskey-weld.
plate placed, they sealed
the puckered lips
of scalp, a shut mouth.
inside, a flowering
of gristle, white
bouclé tissue threaded
through the brain, cracks
between memory
and memory. what tiny
intaglio etchings of our home
have been pressed
like antiques into that
metal shred? if I were to oil
its hinges and open
it like a door, what
face would I find there
on its belly, what
ebbing world you’ve
been living in?
craniotomy
Rochelle Hurt is the author of a novel in poems, The Rusted City (White Pine, 2014). Her work appears in Best New Poets 2013, Crab Orchard Review, Mid-American Review, The Southeast Review, Kenyon Review Online, and elsewhere. She is a PhD student in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati.