For Ailsa
I wrapped my hand in a T-shirt that said 'Fat Willy's Surf Shack'.
There was so much blood that, when it clotted,
the T-shirt became a permanent part of my hand.
People treat you differently; they reach out to greet you
at dinner parties then flinch.
'Don't be alarmed,' I have to say, feigning cheeriness,
'it's just a mass of scar tissue
fused with dated beachwear,' and I wave
the dark crusted club at them,
to prove it doesn't bite.
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