The Finger

 

The Finger.

Originally written as why I didn’t go to mike ladd’s 50th birthday party, a kind of ‘the dog ate my homework’ letter of apology to my Max-Mo mate, poet Mike Ladd. The story’s 100% true. I still lack feeling (and always will) in the finger tip, making certain guitar chords and shakuhachi notes difficult. My carelessness also resulted in missing a really good party by all accounts. But quite a decent poem came out of it… Thanks to Anandamine for the cool music & production.

 

 

 

 

 

Why I missed Mike Ladd’s 50th Birthday Party.

 

The tractor-mower hits a stump on the slope and

flips in a second. Thrown off, earphones ripped from

the iPod when Sergio is between mas que na and da.

 

Then an adrenalin-fuelled leap to avoid

being crushed between tractor and post

and trailing fingers go thump in the blades.

 

When the eyes see the end of the finger hanging,

a flap of mincemeat, a second thump of the heart

orchestral stab in a horror movie soundtrack.

 

The other hand squeezes

mashed flesh to stem the flow.

 

The drive to Flinders Medical Centre, cold sweat

dripping into eyes, blood dripping on gumboots,

willing myself to breathe slowly. Pain like hot needles.

 

Triage, grass-clippings on the ER floor

Calming pulse, x-rays. The matter-of-fact

Egyptian surgeon with French accent.

 

At first my eyes clamp shut but

he works for almost an hour reconnecting

nerves, tissues and finally skin.

 

I watch him fascinated as he reconstructs

the end of my ring finger,

 

a busted raw sausage held together

with fine blue thread.

 

© rob walker, 2011.

 

Originally published as why I missed Mike Ladd’s 50th birthday party

in Metabolism: Australian Poetry Members Anthology, an e-journal released in early 2012

 

ISBN: 978-0-9871-7650-9 Dewey Number: A821.3

 

 

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