We knew we weren’t right
under our clothes — our tiny wings,
our fur. We practiced eye contact
on frogspawn at the bottom of the garden.
There were hens and eggs lying
under bushes in their shamble nests –
the bubbled panes of glaire
between our fingers, the yolk
a golden toad on your palm!
We’ve grown to like our faces wild,
our chin spikes, our cobby goblin bodies.
We love grass stains, the taste of green
as you split a blade and owl it.
We live life close to the ground
crouched and smoky,
sharing each other’s illnesses,
taking them on like charms.
Egg’s broken morning, egg’s freckled skin —
it’s always summer with the warm bodies
of our hens and sisters.
On winter days your tongue’s
an ice lolly in my mouth.
We wake with hair like frozen twigs
and kick through the windows of puddles.