The Fates by Rita Ann Higgins‏

The fates are on a bank holiday weekend
showing off around the long wards.
The spinner spins herself
into a menacing match with a melanoma
(more like a blip really)
Sourface Atropos is dying her hair,
bile green with a streak of infection.

I wouldn’t mind another look
at that lump on your husband’s neck
I love lumps me, the doctor said.
The spinner is spinning like Michael Flately,
her dress is all fatigue and scans
her look is pins and needles.
Could he come to my clinic on Tuesday?
He can go straight to the top of the queue
I just want another feel of that lump
I love lumps me.

The measurer measures her cloth
to suit her ‘covered in bling’ balaclava,
it fits oddly over her radiation mask.
I might admit him
but it’s nothing to worry about.
Sourface Atropos never turns over a new grief
never turns up her nose to a barium meal
never turns

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