I come home to this
my private theatre
where a space on the desk
- papers and scratched CDs pushed aside -
will do
for my tools;
The blade
a wad of tissue for gauze
a tube of savlon and a lighter take the place
of the autoclave.
The first cut is shallow
then deeper
and a layer of pain to cut through
Deeper than that is just ache
and fat cells.
The tissue in my other hand dabs the blood
as surely and as absentmindedly as a surgeon
whose concentration is taken up
looking for the tumour.
Outside the world goes on
People shout and hug
have birthdays
get confused
and push trolleys while
worrying their husband is
having an affair.
But behind the theatre door
time has let up briefly
If only till the dressings are in place
and the door is swung wide again
to the noise of the real world.