Suzanne Finch 69

Sue Finch



I can’t send you back, can I?
she said. 

What if I wanted to go?
To have her voice filtered through skin and fat.
Those words,
those questions,
that curious consoling babble. 

What if I wanted to be enclosed again?
To be unseen,

What if I wanted to keep her expectant?
To have us halted in anticipation. 


Last time I led with my head;
tunnelling though grip after grip
of concentric circles.
A hot salted mucus sealed my squashed nose
denying me her scent.
Air on my hairless head shocked me
as my face squashed tighter
for my slow unscrewing.
The throb of heartbeats
confused me with her;
fast and faster
in my ears, my chest, my head.
Longing to cry,
my lungs had me impatient.
A metallic tang hung in shivers of cold
as at last my body slung out behind.
I was landed.


This time
I would be her contortionist daughter —
her womb my lockable box.
I would have to go backwards,
lead with my feet, point my toes
(although I am not a natural toe pointer).
Contoured contractions
would twist my legs into a rope
their powerful vacuum cramping, pulling,
spiralling me upwards
until the smooth, curled width of my hips
pushes her pelvis, demanding to come in.
My left shoulder would force her wide
just before that warmth grabs my neck
Her stretch for the sharp shock of my head
would finally close my eyes.

Sue Finch grew up in Herne Bay. She now lives with her wife in North Wales and enjoys exploring the countryside and coast. Her first published poem appeared in A New Manchester Alphabet in 2015 whilst studying for her MA with Manchester Metropolitan University. Her work has also appeared in Ink, Sweat and Tears and in Crossings Over, an anthology published by Chester University Press. She tweets @soopoftheday and her blog can be found at: