Peter McDonald

Galatea

Each night when they bring her face to face
with her torturers, when she
and the branding iron come cheek to cheek,
he's in his box, watching from behind a curtain,
and before retrieving his coat and top hat
from the headless lackey, will have closed
his eyes just as she and the hot iron
kiss, opening them in time for her screams
and the rest of the action, live on stage.

Is he quite sure she felt no pain?
Alone at night in his private chamber
of horrors, locked in with her waxwork double,
he gives his doctor's hands
the run of her body, smoothing out
blemishes and talking as a lover might do,
allowing himself one classical allusion
as he starts to unbutton Galatea's dress,
biting the wax, abject surréaliste.