In the thrill of the moment,
My thumb, like an onion, is cut.
The top, gone in an instant,
Leaving behind a flap of skin.
A hat of dead white,
And beneath it, a plush of red.
Like a little pilgrim,
My thumb is scalped, just as the Indian\'s axe.
The carpet of my flesh rolls,
Straight from the heart,
And I step on it, clutching
A bottle of pink fizz in celebration.
From the gap, a million soldiers run,
Every one a redcoat, but whose side are they on?
I am ill, my homunculus,
And I\'ve taken a pill to kill
The thin, papery feeling inside.
I am a saboteur, a kamikaze man,
And the stain on my gauze darkens and tarnishes.
The balled pulp of my heart
Confronts its small mill of silence,
And I jump, a trespassed veteran,
A dirty man with a thumb stump. (\"Thumb Stump\") by Courtney Weaver Jr.