By Tim Craven

Rare and degenerative, the condition arrived
without warning: a Tarantula for an index finger,
its swollen mocha abdomen fused to the knuckle
as though the lines embossed across my palm
were the net of its silk-spun web.
Then a Huntsman where I’d last seen
my right thumb. Doctors counted the eyes,
plucked legs for biopsies;
an experimental ointment was prescribed.
I made do with my hands stuffed in my pockets,
opening jars in an elbow’s crook.
I almost forgot my plight until two small Sheet Weavers
busied themselves replacing my pinkies.
Then the Trapdoor, the Wolf, the Brown Recluse.

Why me? Why not the neighbor’s son?
I’d chop off my arms were I able to grip
the necessary instrument.
My only solace comes at night
when the inquisitive pointed fingers
of children are tucked up in bed.
I drink whiskey and ginger through a straw
and telephone a friend whose own suffering
makes me feel as though I’ve won a prize.
She has experts stumped: an inoperable alligator
is wrapped around her intestines and any day now
its merciless jaws will snap shut for good.

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Tim Craven has an MFA from Syracuse and a PhD from the University of Edinburgh. He studied the characterization of mental illness in confessional poetry. He received a New Writers Award from the Scottish Book Trust and an Emerging Writer Award from Cove Park. His chapbook is Lake Effect (Tapsalteerie) and his debut collection is Good Sons (Blue Diode). He lives in Scotland. timcraven.co.uk