Gloves Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Gloves
Blue gloves approach
Legs in the stirrups, baring all for birth
The udder-like fingers probe
Explore, expand
Like grappling octopus tentacles
Round the foetus

Blue gloves approach
Brandish a metal phallus
‘Just a little nick'
Smear whipped away, with dignity,
Blue Gloves retreat

Blue gloves approach
The mozzie whine of modern dentistry
Descends, and with it
Memories of horror,
Drool, discomfort, agony.

Blue gloves approach the dead man on the slab
Somebody's brother, father, uncle, friend
Like something foul as carrion or disease

I dream of blue gloves laughing
Menacing, at night

White gloves of satin, lace or friendly cotton
Formal, sophisticated, elegant and chic
Cotton's for handling priceless manuscripts
Waiters wear them at high class events

Brides wear them, blotting out tattooes
Like Tina loves Big Bartek, how unfit
To drape around a partner christened Dan