After ‘I Woke Up’ by Jameson Fitzpatrick


I lay with my full bladder feeling the pulsing pain

from my one bleeding ovary

and it was intimate, though not quite as intimate


as the nurse squirting lubricant

onto a probe, pointing to the screen’s grey blur

and translating it as


haemorrhagic cyst. I felt her cold syllables

wriggling into my ear canals and it was intimate.

Sometimes intimacy takes the form


of sitting indoors with a hot water bottle,

spraying my succulents and watching their soil dampen

while picking intimate skin off my intimate running blisters


just as I know other people’s intimate habits

include smelling their own fingers

and smoothing their greasy bedsheets


after an intimate night of intimate sleep.

Looking out of the window at someone across

the street looking out of their window


used to be an intimate act of theft,

an infinitesimal scandal of glimpsing each other

in the intimate home, but in 2020


this is how we define human intimacy,

as separated by an intimate street,

and by intimate glass, twice.





Also by Jenny,