Eyes

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.