my harboured dead-eye,
yawns and stretches,
then resists,
I sorely slaved
to pare and carve
the wretched ache,
to make it fit.
You stitch my eyelids
shut, with numbers
and guide me back
into the womb
black lipped, you
prise me like an oyster
and eagerly excavate
my tomb.
2012 © LH
