Innocents

Thirty-two beds full of man, each curtained,
ticking testosterone bursting bandages.

She – a closeted young woman – pure and
unaware like a just birthed gazelle,

hiding behind the starch of uniform
moved along by the cry of new shoes.

Bed seven, older than her father,
removes his pyjama jacket, pats the bed.

She enters, dragging her small trolley,
he launches bawdy words to tease and toy,
she is confused – he is shaking with fear.

She has been sent so selects the razor,
this hirsute arm heavy on her shoulder
must be ready for the surgeon's knife.