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Ode to the Leech
Everyone thinks the tattoo on the back of my hand
by the jagged scar is the Mercedes logo. But it’s not.
It’s a picture of the mouth that saved my thumb.
The table saw accident last fall—late afternoon
light slanted across the floor as I ripped the last
sheet of plywood before heading out to the bar—
I did what they always say not to do: I ditched
the scrap and pressed the wood to the field by hand.
I watched as if floating to the left of my body:
the thumb’s red arc, its sawdust landing, the ice bucket
with its cargo on the passenger seat, the one-handed drive
to Emergency. I woke up later, hand in a bandage.
When the doctor said leeches are making a comeback,
I balked. But as my hand swelled, he convinced me
to let the sucker do its work. 100 saw-like teeth
in three muscular jaws caused no pain as it latched on,
the shiny brown segments of its body swelling, my blood
six months worth of food. When it fell off, satiated,
the wound drained for hours, my blood thinned
by the hirudin in its saliva, the encircled inverted Y
a remnant of its compassionate hunger.
Marie-Elizabeth Mali
Everyone thinks the tattoo on the back of my hand
by the jagged scar is the Mercedes logo. But it’s not.
It’s a picture of the mouth that saved my thumb.
The table saw accident last fall—late afternoon
light slanted across the floor as I ripped the last
sheet of plywood before heading out to the bar—
I did what they always say not to do: I ditched
the scrap and pressed the wood to the field by hand.
I watched as if floating to the left of my body:
the thumb’s red arc, its sawdust landing, the ice bucket
with its cargo on the passenger seat, the one-handed drive
to Emergency. I woke up later, hand in a bandage.
When the doctor said leeches are making a comeback,
I balked. But as my hand swelled, he convinced me
to let the sucker do its work. 100 saw-like teeth
in three muscular jaws caused no pain as it latched on,
the shiny brown segments of its body swelling, my blood
six months worth of food. When it fell off, satiated,
the wound drained for hours, my blood thinned
by the hirudin in its saliva, the encircled inverted Y
a remnant of its compassionate hunger.
Marie-Elizabeth Mali
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Copyright © 2009 Marie-Elizabeth Mali (poetry)
Hear Marie-Elizabeth reading her poem.