Sue Finch

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the poet

Sue Finch lives with her wife in North Wales. 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 a number of online magazines including: The Interpreter’s House, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Dear Reader, One Hand Clapping and IceFloe Press. Her debut collection, ‘Magnifying Glass’, Black Eyes Publishing UK, was published in October 2020

the poems

Flamingo

After Liz Berry

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The night she bent my elbows

to fit the candy floss cardigan

for the twenty-third time, my limbs turned to wings.

She wished me to be a pink girl.

My neck grew and grew,

elongating, extending,

black eyes, shrunk in the pink like submerged pea shingle.

Light in my fans of feathers,

I was lifted like a balloon puffed with helium.

Body and wings held stately,

magically anchored by one leg,

miniature rough patellas marked my hinges.

When the scent entered half-moon holes in my new beak

I could have salivated at the raw rip of scaled flesh

but my juices would not run – I was gizzard now.

I couldn’t bear the confinement of the flock but flight

had me fearful.

Passing through flamingo phase I fattened, darkened.

A birch broom in a fit,

I shook my thick cheeks side to side

became a dodo

with a waddle in my walk that slowed.

She sent my father then. He came alone

with gun and incongruent grin

and shot me dead.

Skewered me above his heaped fire under moonlight,

turned me slowly round and round.

When he turned for the sauce

I dropped;

charcoaled feathers, beak tinged with soot,

burning in the blaze.

I laughed as I rose

higher and higher;

a golden bird from the fire.

I Can't Send You Back, Can I?

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I

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,

hidden.

What if I wanted to keep her expectant?

To have us halted in anticipation.

II

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.

III

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.

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.

Jars

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It was a surprise

so I kept my eyes closed

all the way to the garden.

My empty stomach

was a theatre of kaleidoscoping gems.

She stopped me walking,

invited me to open my eyes.

Slowly I began to see.

An enormous glass jar

had been delivered to our lawn.

Above it, swinging from a crane

was a lid.

Do you like it? she asked.

It’s huge, I managed.

I am going to exhibit you,

she said excitedly. You like things in jars.

I did.

That was the truth.

A collection of smurfs,

smartie lids, miniature carved owls,

that figure of Dick Tracy.

I liked looking at them,

it made dusting easier,

they could be handed

to someone with ease, for scrutiny.

I wasn’t sure this was right for me.

I ordered an extra large one, she was saying.

She seemed to be making a speech,

a declaration of love.

I was supposed to be grateful now,

touched, overwhelmed.

Two men were smiling at me

asking her if I was ready.

then I was on a platform

being lowered in.

I smiled like a good exhibit should

as the lid was lowered on.

It fitted firmly.

Did she know I would make condensation

spoil the whole effect?

Publishing credits

S h a r e