Member Poem

They’ve just set off from Bridgend, Wales, I’m told
by one excited nurse; I try to smile.
For ulcers slow to heal, this treatment’s gold,
the doctor says; I need to steel a while –

engage imagination, and befriend
the wrigglers who are coming for my wound.
It’s possible they’ll bring about the end
of all this pus, infection. They’re cocooned

within a woven pouch – a teabag thing,
the nurse explains, and adds: You like your tea!
That’s true. An English breakfast, little zing
of lemon. This is different, though. Let’s see –

the maggots have arrived. My bandages
are changed, the tiny fighters lodged inside
to launch their staunch attack. The damage is
immediate. I feel their chariot ride

across the fields of yellow, green, and brown
and settle somewhere central. Disembark!
The order. Out they get and hunker down
to feasting furiously, under dark

of gauze and grip and – suddenly, a pain,
a burning on my leg. It hurts. I shriek.
No one to help. I call and call again.
I’m shaking, sweating, feeling sick and weak…

I wake. The battle’s done, a bandage back,
Manuka honey soothing on my shin.
And Nurse is here, with tea, it’s sweet and black.
I sip, apologise for all the din –

quite understandable, I am informed:
debridement time was fast. And after that,
the maggots ate each other, sort of swarmed.
Nurse took them off – far fewer, fairly fat.

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Published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, May 2024