Suture

Thinking about the logic of the interstice and film mediality (this paper will never be finished…) and came across this, from Sylvia Plath. Quite striking, although from what I recall of the time I (accidentally) cut off the tip of my middle finger in the door, it wasn’t nearly as aesthetic an experience: picture 11 year old me running around the house, screaming, holding a bloody stump. My mother, for her part, was telling me to calm down “before I stained something.”

Cut

What a thrill —-
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Advertisement