Another putting on of bare-back hospital gown.
Another anaesthetist warning of strokes and clots.
Another slicing open of the left eye.
Later, noisy nurses and quietly-pleased doctors
Look down at me. We raise crossed fingers, and hope.
Then, on a narrow gurney, alone. Is it night?
Eye so sore, but spirits soar. Bubbles of hope.
Next day the surgeon, wanting perfection,
Breathes out slow, takes a tiny scalpel
And twists one of the knots round.
“It might break,” he says. “I hope not.”
It doesn’t. We both breathe in again.