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Four poems by Sarah Fletcher
Well Versed is edited by JODY PORTER

Lads

With them, sex feels like miming drowning;
with gapped mouths gasping, their rower’s arms
too heavy from the drink to pull them back
to shore, the thrashing, the feeling
of being below the surface, the grabbing.

& waking next to them in morning,
the bed having spat back their sleeping bodies
to the sun, having fished them into sobriety
like a plastic bag wrenched from a river,
when they are on their backs and gorgeous
like funeral home corpses —
this is when they are most beautiful —

Our Daughter
 
If we'd had her, we’d 
have named her Annabelle.
 
I know she would’ve been a daughter, 
and I would have announced her 
 
over coffee in your flat, thinking
a scene of domesticity 
 
most fitting for the news.
‘Sugar, dear?’ I’d ask, then ’It’s a girl!’
 
I’d sense your initial disappointment, 
having wanted a son, but then 
 
watch you grow into it, 
pick out her name.
 
Annabelle,’ you’d say, and 
I’d agree, though later 
 
I would learn you took it from 
the girl who got away. 
 
I don’t think I’d have minded this,
to your surprise.
 
They all say motherhood brings 
new perspective,
 
and by the time I’d realised all of that 
I’d be swollen with child,
 
be ready to forgive all those 
who sinned against me. 
 
And if we had her, just you watch me:
I’d become the type of girl 
 
who’s fun, carefree. Who doesn’t 
worry about old loves 
 
bumping into you on city streets
and taking you from me.
 
But now, those dreams
I have are dashed, 
 
as I wait for you 
to text me back about 
 
the blank line on the test. 
 
 
 
 
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