Dr. Bakunetsu

His name is Japanese for ‘explosive heat’ –
it’s also, he says, unfastening his suitcase’s
brass clasps, the name he gives the ailment, taps
the carat of my ribs – “In here, chief?

Right-o, that’s a nasty one. No, don’t speak!
These things can go off any time, sunshine,
I’ve seen ones that could atomise Parliament,
your heart’s the barrel and this thing, chief,

this’s the burning taper. S’only got to leap
like a flea, or a jumping bean, sunbeam,
skip like a record and your whole torso’ll
go up like a sack of fireworks. Keep still, chief.”

His cigarette tipped with a ziggurat, his teeth
cusped with blood, he makes an incision.
My chest’s the seat of something unstable
as the Second Triumvirate, making sleep

impossible. Hot-black as torched heath,
lodged like grapeshot. I’ve heard such things
are regarded by some as blessings, weapons
to be broken in and put on a leash,

but where do you start? “Hold still, chief!
Almost got the bounder.” Steam whistles
from the crack, a stutter of sparks ricochet
off his goggles. He grins. “Wasn’t all that deep,

son. Not surprising – you ain’t got much meat
on yer.” He jauntily applies a sticking plaster.