Natasha Dennerstein

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O, thyroid

O, thyroid, the whitecoats say you are overactive but you’re not, you give me energy for my frenemies, anemones, foxgloves, rubber-gloves, washing dish liquid for crystal-clear cut-glass. You butterfly yourself around my thorax and larynx like a tiny chicken-breast, matchbox spatchcock, just below my Adam’s Apple but where is Eve, The Serpent, that hissing tempter - vessel for Satan - with his ruby eye and slippery tongue, wanting me to eat of the fruit, devour, swallow half-way till it gets to you, O, thyroid, you clever gland: secrete away, secrete away ‘cause I don’t need no supplements, no thyroid-stimulating hormone, intone bankloan to make me moan.

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