The man at the reception desk
tells us he doesn’t actually work here.
There are corridors within corridors,
stairs you have to go up
in order to come down,
my name lost in the system.
But there is also kindness
drawn with a black marker,
a sense that all this
has been done before.
After the needles and the stitches
and the reconstruction,
I will emerge hungry from my cocoon.
My wings tattooed with the start
of a beyond surgery.
Living As An Alien 
………another heart hearing poem distilled from the reality of experience. You bring that experience right here Aoife,You appeared in my dream last night, sitting, talking warmly, brightly and this morning I am walking up these downstairs in your wake, hearing Kafka in your voice echoing in the corridors, Much love, many thanks,L-M
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