Susan Richardson Metamorphosis To begin with, nothing drastic: the odd cold bath, air con on max, the utter absence of shivers. Then, the skin tingles, each pore forcing the shaft of a feather forth, like a lid with a push-through straw. I go right off garlic, crisps, samosas, bright red curtains, Gaugin prints. If I must stay indoors, I want plain white tiles, a single chilled porcelain sink. And oh, the fingers. Useless, as if mittened. And stretched, the tips skimming the floor. Scissors, chopsticks, forks—all binned. Breasts blend with belly, waist, hips. I'm lugging a two-fifty-litre rucksack in an outsize black wetsuit and wellies. My tears taste of fish. Fresh fears keep me from sleeping. The flecked throats of bull seals. Ice melt. Oil slicks. I make a nest from the last strands in my hairbrush and what I once knew as pencils, and string. Soon I must force this hard new truth between my legs and hatch it.

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