The thin armour

you give the newborn,

the midwife

washes away.

In playgrounds,

when the bullied fall,

you rush

to the hill of a bruise.

The shape of your engine room,

lovers carve into tree trunks.

In war

you blossom from

every wounded soldier and civilian.

In the field hospital

you glisten on

the gloved hands of surgeons

and each busy scalpel.

You’re not to be trusted,

rummaging in the attic of our skulls,

studying the blueprints of our veins,

deciding where to place

your quick assassins,

clot and haemorrhage.

I hold my breath,

check my pulse,

as you make your rounds.

(from Beneath Our Armour)