The Hatch
Each night I do the rounds,
monitor hearts’ contractions
by lamplight’s gleam, press nerves
down crumpled spines
and wrap skin round bones
as paper holds a watermark’s ghost,
graft cells onto glass-bound wings.
I feed drops from a pipette
to soft beaks: they mewl and bleat,
furl wrinkled fists around my little finger,
lift oversized heads to the moon.
When slack muscles strengthen
I cup them to the hatch
carved beneath the eaves, watch silhouettes
thrash from my open palm.
My shoulder-blades bristle and bruise
as I hunch in a suit of feathers,
transfer new blood to empty tubes.
*Tess Jolly lives in West Sussex with her partner and two young children. She has had work forthcoming in Iota, The North and Magma and was highly commended in last year's Mslexia Women's Poetry Competition.
