Safety-pin ribs, and black-rice eyes.
Ungenerous fur; mottled red
is the blanket box where placenta lay,
a feast of preservation. Failed.
An eight year-old snaps safety-pins closed.
Eyes flower, and against
Great Natural Law #311, shrink
through seed to nothing.
Or a purse discarded on the floor,
beside three others.

Ewen Glass (he/him) is a poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise, and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Bridge Eight, Poetry Scotland, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. On the socials – and indeed in real life – he is pretty much @ewenglass everywhere.