The Paw

A tale in poetic form

I stumbled, at last, back into camp
That fateful morn, kerchief pressed tight
To what remained of my right
Mangled, past the obligation
Of being named a hand.

Sticky sinews and clumps of flesh
Bore the trademarks
Of where the croc tried to tear it away,
And me into the river, with it.

What was left, spoiled
Ravaged by the fetid rot of the jungle
Flies the size of bumblebees
Probed its ruined surface
Proboscides dabbing, soaking up
A slurry of slaughter
Ruined muscles, like a faded tattoo
Stitched together phalanges
In the essence of its former shape.

The surgeon stooped low, rubbing his chin

“What became of your hand, and the digits attached?”

“Why, good doctor, ‘twas snatched
By some unknown miscreant
When I reached into the river
To fill my canteen.”

Squinting his eyes, he sighed
With no signal of discernment in their depths
He harrumphed, and air whistled from his nose
A noisome gust trumpeting regret
For his parched throat
And true remorse, at the lack of whisky pouring down it.
His hands shook, sprinkled in no less sweat
Than that beading from his brow

“Dreadful,” said he, his handsome robust mustaches sweeping away any sign of compassion from his chin.

“It turns out the resolution to your predicament, sir
Is immediate and expeditious amputation
Fold the flap, pin it
And dip the stump in
Maggots
They’ll indulge in nibbling away the necrosis
Post-haste
Editing the tatters of flesh
Gone sour in the interim.

It may be jarring to look at, for a while
You’ll have cause to hide your gaze
Because if you acknowledge the wound
Where once that appendage resided
It becomes real.
Best pretend it doesn’t exist
Wall it away, in some inner wasteland
Where it can rust with all the other refuse
Let it wither, some quarantined pox
That burned through every tissue it inhabited
And numbed the flesh it spared.”

A key, affixed around his neck
Accessed the cabinet he stored his liquor in
He poured me a capful
And snuck two swigs before
He set it down
Water welled in his eyes
As they searched for an escape
His lip quivered
When he raised his saw

Tributaries of sweat
Rolled along the creases of his face
And caught in his mustaches
His upturned thumb primly pressed
The fringes of them
Away from his lips, as speckled with spittle
As the spots dotting the pelts
Adorning the beasts
Chasing down the springbok
On the sweltering veldt

His eyes fixed on the flap
Openly ogling the obvious orifice capping
The remnants of a hesitant tendril
An arm, ending at the wrist
That once was crowned by an armored fist.
A limb unfit for further manipulation
Of the world around it.
Once, a top-of-the-line model
At the height of its tactile proclivity
A ready hand, reaching out to an unknown world
An exploratory agent
I lost touch with
A primate’s paw, withered and shriveled
I kept as sacred totem

“You’ll have to make do
With fewer than two
Limbs, for your daily tasks.
Chin up, stiff upper lip! You’ll manage, and there’s a good chap.”

An involuntary spasm ran up the arm, and he chortled as if told a witty truth.

“‘Tis an itch, you’ll yearn to scratch
Your remaining years.”

Around my neck, on a cord, he draped the remnant of my hand:
Skeletal and mocking, it hung
Severed stump staring me in the face

“Here is your trophy, sir, to hang ‘round your neck
And I trust the price paid was worth it
For the glory of the Empire
And the furtherance of civilization, wot?”

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