Gloves

I am bitter, I see fossils in the reflection of train windows
in places that people’s heads should be,
rocks grinding on shoulders, into each others’ faces.

A nautilus cracks the window in search of sleep or ocean,
a pointless animal, it should be extinct, or is it
already? The others are trilobites with tentacles
where mouths should be, my head is an animal
that swims backwards, one day I will grow
a mouth instead of tentacles.

The size of my gloves compared to my head indicates
that I should feel a lot, in my hands, with my hands
relatively speaking, the light in the train is clinical,
nothing can breed in here except egg sandwiches and babies.
Someone should dissect something, locate evolution, where amphibians
begin and what is extinct, find the vestigial organs, hands, hearts, water?
The light outside is livery, the light on the hills is baby shit brown.
I need to use my hands. My head is small. Palpitations.
I fear for my heart. The weather is too cold for touching and I am losing feeling
in my hands. I can’t hear the rhythm of where we are going and my
breath on the window shrinks, reveals a shiny half moon scalpel, now
I can see my reflection, the rain on the window, the landscape behind it,
the light, the face, the rocks, my face, a pebble
and the stream slides over it.

About Holly Isemonger

Holly is an Australian living in Glasgow. She enjoys maps but not in the practical sense. She is usually confused or lost, probably because she is not good at reading maps, but loves them anyway. She has been published in Potluck Mag, Hoax, and The Bohemyth. She can also be found on Twitter and Tumblr.

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