A thing so small we measure you in grams, half grams, quarter grams. Sealed in your childish greenhouse, blind and deaf. As tubes snake in and out of places they don’t belong. Keeping track of the rise and fall of the ocean you contain. Turn every hour. Stay warm. Breathe.

Jennifer Ritch writes brief things and is a sort of retired nurse. Her work has been published in The Beat: The Literary Journal of the UCLA School of Medicine. She likes dogs and candy.