By Sylvia Plath (and sent as a prezzie by le marquis, aw! I’m all squish inside!)

What a thrill—
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian’s axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.
A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
The thin
Papery feeling.
Kamikaze man—
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump—
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

Even though it is my pinky and not my thumb that has been sliced, it is bad enough to warrant Sylvia. Cut it dicing my veg on a mandolin last night. I’ve never had a bad cut, or broken bones. This was scary. It was a neat oval slice, to the muscle, and is only held on by a 1/16th” isthmus of skin. The doctor says it will prolly turn black and fall off, then I will have a wee scoop out of the side of my finger. As soon as my blubbering stopped last night I asked Mr. Kallisti if we could take a picture. He said no and kept bandaging.
Who knew skin was so thick and white on the inside?

There’s nothing so apropos as Caravaggio for deep wounds. Well, except maybe Sylvia.

2 thoughts on “CUT”

  1. Holy Lo’…..that description made me twitchy. Sounds like a nasty boo~boo. I’ll give it a very gentle <3

  2. My fifth-grade teacher accidentally lopped off a good piece of the end of one thumb on a paper-cutter, and lived to tell the tale.

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