Anemone

This is the poem I wrote a few days ago about my stoma and the bag and all the problems I was having. Hopefully it's a thing of the past now, but it should have its place here.


Stirred memory

Itches

The anemone bathing

In warm shallows of recovery

Empties lava in to a boiling sea

Blind shadows in the depths

Disturbed.

The sea slug dribblesears across my stomach

Follows gravity

Down the scar tracks

Seeps into my underwear

Burning burning

I remove the pad

Force myself competent

Douse the fire

Remember

Michael

Who pooed his grey flannel shorts

In the playground when we were seven.