“You can turn away”, he says
as he sets the bowl and scalpel
on the tray next to my bed.
I wince, obligingly
lower my head,
but as the blade digs in
I watch him work,
painstaking.
Extracting one shard
at a time from my arm:
pincering it out, spluttered with blood
catching a glimpse of the glint, like a flash,
before glass hits tin.

No tears then, only after,
when he stares and says:
“You won't do that in a hurry again.”