First aid only
You come in from play gone wrong
and the graze is bad,
a mess of scraped skin
and blood standing out like
strung crimson beads.
I dry your eyes first
and then tackle the wound;
run the hot tap, lift out grit
on the damp cotton wool,
smooth back the skin.
The dabbed antiseptic stings
tears back into your eyes.
‘You’ll live,’ I pronounce,
willing you into a smile.
‘No stitches this time!’
But I think as I soften the hurt
with a plaster, how much
of your life will be like this;
not great gaping wounds
but a punctuation of grazes
leaving scars on the heart,
in the head, which I cannot
protect you from.
Page(s) 55
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