Butterfly Farm

This species' members aren't quite greenhouse reared –
they're factory made and instantly mature,
in stainless steel with just one little pair
of plastic wings. They fit inside a drawer

within a storage unit, in a room
or on a trolley, wheeled where they’re required.
My diary shows I’m due to meet one soon;
today, in fact. I check I’m well attired

for our appointment. Yes, my sleeves can roll,
allowing for the creature to alight
upon an inner elbow, gain a hold
to pierce and feast. It's an intriguing sight,

the mouthpart linked directly to the tube
that transports all its feed so swiftly out –
a larger tube awaits. The team needs two
to chart my progress. Frightening things can sprout

when medication alters human cells –
my blood-flow slows. The creature, fed, withdraws,
its mouthpart wiped, its destination now
the waste container. Nurse holds down the gauze.

Felicity Teague

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Felicity Teague would be pleased to hear them