Late Bloomer
By Izzy Jayham
In the gym changing rooms I am a knotted weed
wound around a metal clothes hook.
Playing dodgeball in a tight shirt
and small skirt,
I begin to fossilise.
I am a lycopod in lycra
with a face like red mud
sinking into the sediments
of A-cup embarrassment,
praying that my classmates’ chisels
do not excavate my remains.