I wash my hands with brillo pads,
removing all those baked on stains
and too much skin.
‘Lady MacBeth at two o’clock!’
the cry goes up. I shall not wear
white gloves again.
A Catholic priest is much excited.
‘Stigmata wounds!’ she shouts, and phones
the latest Pope.
‘The latex Pope?’ I clean my ears
out with an awl, while trying not
to lose my grip.
While trying not to lose my grip,
I almost lose my hearing for
a second time.
The nurse at A and E suggests
I make no mention of my eyes
in any poem.