Haemophilia

Suspicion,

like a hangnail,

drags, opening a seam.

The whetstone of

lonely nights,

lonely thoughts,

peels the sharp blade

from the dull.

Overflowing

the jagged banks

the corpuscles and cells

that are half-mine

and half-hers

rush up against the levees

built and then untended.

The lower wards

feel something coming:

a voice beside and apart

hums How Great Thou Art

as a warm hand presses

firmly on your arm,

dreading to do more harm,

harming to do more dread.