the poet
Neonatal doctor and poet Elizabeth Osmond published her debut chapbook Hatchery, about her work in neonatal medicine, in 2026. Her poems have appeared in The Aftershock Review, The Alchemy Spoon, Dust Poetry Magazine, Atrium, Ink Sweat & Tears and After… She's twice won prizes in the Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine, having started writing originally as a form of reflective practice on her clinical work. Elizabeth's wonderful family, including her autistic son – for whom she wrote Becoming – are both her joy and a source of inspiration.
the poems
Rubies
Little red doughnuts,
bob along, jostle for space
in a plasma sea.
Slow drop on a fresh slide.
I push my eye
into the viewfinder.
Count each perfect clone,
each stroke of luck,
each ruby.
Nuclei lost,
shortened lifespan
to make space for oxygen.
On Fishtail Mountain
I saw a woman glide skyward,
back bent under a woven basket.
Born in marrow to carry life,
they hang in the bag
over the incubator.
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Love as the washing-up
After Clare Shaw
Required by most people on most days,
some circumvent it on special occasions.
I have heard about take-out
but can’t abide all that plastic.
This summer on the island there was a water shortage.
I saved every drop, returned to preschool
where I tipped from bucket to pot.
Remember that advert? A woman stroked
her manicured hands in bubbles
whilst a baby rolled about in a terry nappy.
After our second, I dreamed of a dishwasher.
We joked about discovering a low-carbon concrete alternative,
in the form of dried Weetabix.
I am content at the sink, facing Cromwell’s castle.
Boats bob in the bay, a dolphin plays,
as I scoop congealed porridge,
swirl, and pour the dregs down the drain.
Becoming
I have been trying to understand by becoming him.
So far, I can only manage a section at a time.
A liver, a foot, an atrium. My femur understands
that birthdays are a demand bringing
expectations of joy, a picture book
with a giant cake, friends around a table,
an unknown item under paper. My stomach
clenches at the smell in a swim bath, detecting
what my untransformed nose cannot.
My auditory processing area lights up on functional MRI:
a red warning, at a tone and pitch my ears
cannot yet detect. My fifth lumbar vertebra
feels a sense of constant disorientation
when not inside the house.
My right seventh maxilla tooth
can no longer talk to people I don’t know
and has difficulty with those I do
unless all demands and expectations are removed.
It needs total acceptance.
My legs get ready to run whilst my fingers stim regular movements.
But my arms are still my arms,
reaching out.
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb