ewen glass
flu head
Like it might just come off,
separate around the temples,
tendrils taut round ears,
strapping tighter and tighter
as the top sails higher; it feels
right that blood vessels connect,
continue to, even in stretch
and buffer. You shouldn’t be
able to touch a headache.
Now there’s a space between,
sunlight, a bird or two, you
could fit your arm in there,
through. Please be kind enough
to pull it out before the meds
start working and my mind
closes like the comments.
undergrowth
knotted and rising
until it’s surface high,
top of mind,
and still growing.
Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and One Art.