Avaughan Watkins is a final year student of Creative Writing with English.

This cigarette is rubbed like gold.

You taught my fingers how to smoke

and now I sit like a winter house.


In the hospital,

you are a craft box

full of plastic,

for the bowel fissures, the doctors say.


If you lived by the ocean,

you would be an albatross


of bottle tops, empty lighters,

toothbrushes, condoms.


If they must open you up again

like a scallop

I hope they find

the peat bog lungs,

the braille of the bronchioles

and that belly of surgical plastic, resting

improbable as an egg.