I cut my thumb upon a saw.
I cut my thumb, and nothing more.
"I cut my thumb," I said aloud,
and pale I grew because I knew
I'd cut my thumb, but that was all.
It bled some blood, and then it stopped.
It radiated pain; it swelled.
It fussed some purple oily pus,
but that was it; it was a cut,
and nothing more. Perhaps a nerve
was slashed; perhaps the bone was scored.
I couldn't tell through all the gore.
A simple cut, and nothing more.
Of that I certainly was sure.

And then I said, "Where is that thumb?"
The lesser part, the knuckle up,
that part had fallen on the floor.
A minor cut, a nick, a scrape,
and positively nothing more.
I found the upper part, the nail,
beneath the sink, behind a pail,
and took it from a rat that had
begun to dine. "It's mine," I said,
"It's mine. Comestibles more fit
for rats are commonplace on floors.
That thumb is mine, and only mine."

How odd, I thought. My thumb was cut
upon a saw, has bled, has hurt,
has rolled about the floor, has near
been gnawed and et by famished rat.
What next? Be carried off by bats?
I smiled. I laughed. I nearly swooned
from loss of blood. I found a thread
and needle, sutured knuckle hard to bone
and wrapped all tight, all snug and tight.
A doctor? No! I wrapped it tight.
Some Bactine, aspirin, the rest
is wasted money, utter waste.
Self-medication is the best.

And then I smelled a nasty smell,
a smell like pine, arrangements floral,
a smell like earth to corpses smells,
indeed, a most unwelcome smell.
I sniffed. The smell was everywhere
I went to smell. The smell, of course,
was me, my thumb. How bad, I thought,
could this smell be, as bad smells go?
I had already cut my thumb,
and now that thumb, that selfsame thumb,
decayed. How bad could bad luck be?
A nasty smell, I thought, that's all.
A passing smell, and nothing more.

A virus ate my flesh, I found,
dissolving skin and bone and more.
A virus ate my flesh, and grew
before my eyes, and grew and gouged
a nasty green and yellow sore,
a green and yellow running sore
in flesh, and then it ate some more.
Where was it from? I didn't know;
but surely, surely, rat or floor
was home to many viral spores.
The nasty virus ate my flesh.
The virus absolutely gorged,
digested skin in layers, nerves,
and even oily purple pus,
digested suture thread and nail,
and spread across my hand, a green
and yellow glove. I watched and thought,
‘Twill eat my hand, but nothing more.
"My hand," I said aloud, to no
one in particular, "will sate
its hunger, satisfy its wants.
My hand will be sufficient fare
to fill a virus, however gaunt."
And what if I should lose a hand?
There is, I thought, no real harm in
an empty wrist to end my arm in.
How odd, I thought; how odd, indeed.
My thumb, which I had bravely saved
from being eaten, (and all this time,
of course, the nasty virus still
was eating, calmly feeding, feeding),
how odd it is that I should save
my second-favorite thumb from saw
and floor and being food for rats,
and now it uses me for food.
How painful the ingratitude.
How sharp as viral tooth my thumb's
ingratitude. My other thumb
would never think to treat me so
opposably. How odd indeed.

The virus ate, and ate some more.
I only waited; almost bored,
I was so patient, bored as paint.
And so I fell asleep. How odd
to fall asleep while being used
as food by nasty viral spores.
But sleep I did, and when I woke,
my arm was not an arm at all;
instead a sleeve of yellow, green
and running sores was where my arm
had been. "Oh, my," I said aloud,
"I overslept, and now my arm
is not my arm, and surely now,
yes, surely now there's lots of harm in
an empty arm to end my arm in."

I'd had my fill of virus, thumb,
and purple oily pus, of green
and yellow running sores. "Enough!"
I cried, and struck the table hard
with fist, or would have struck, had fist
just been where fist had been before.
In short, I missed, but didn't care.
I had a plan. I had a saw
and practical experience
at cutting body parts away.
I flipped the switch and spun the saw.
The circular teeth grew blurred and hummed.
I put my shoulder to the wheel,
and just like that, I gave the rat
a green and yellow happy meal.
How odd, I thought, a flood of blood
exploding over saw and floor
and me. How odd to try to save
a thumb and lose an arm instead.
How odd to saw an arm away,
I thought, and looked for needle, thread,
to close the hole I'd sawed. How odd.
However will I fit the thread
in needle's eye, to close the hole
I've sawed so wide? However will
I medicate myself this time,
with missing arm? But just an arm,
and nothing more. No. Nothing more.