Skip to main content

An Apple for My Mum by Sue Finch

I need to tell you exactly what colour it was.
Did you ever suck an American boiled sweet –
a blue one –
slip it out of your mouth 
hold it to the sun to admire it
before sliding its smoothness back in
and licking the wet sugar coating from
the pads of your thumb and index finger?
It was nearly that blue.

And did you have that gel toothpaste
so bright you squeezed it the full length 
of your brush’s bristles
even though you knew the tube
said ‘pea-sized’?
The kind that had you wondering how blue 
made teeth white?
It was almost that kind of blue. 
And it shone
like the first strokes from a bottle of nail polish 
labelled ‘electric blue’.

And there it was 
hanging from the branch of a tree
within reach, 
four firm knuckles at its base
and no one had picked it.

So I got it for her, that bluest of apples,
and all the way to her house
excitement held my stomach captive
as I imagined her biting into it
or wanting to put it on display 
for the whole world to see.


Sue Finch was born in Kent. She now lives with her wife in North Wales and enjoys exploring the 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 The Interpreter’s House, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Poetry Bus Magazine and in Crossings Over, an anthology published by Chester University Press. Having a number of poems in the real world makes her smile. You can follow Sue on Twitter to find out more about her work: @soopoftheday


  1. Yes I did suck an American boiled sweet and slipped it out of my mouth and then licked my sticky fingers which were th colour of the sweet.
    Yes I did have that sort of turquoise blue toothpaste and did wonder how it would make my teeth white.
    As for a blue apple, never!
    I loved the poem as it brought back so many childhood memories and it made me smile thinking about a blue apple and what it might taste like........ that thinking will stay with me tonight I am sue.
    Excellent poem, I loved it.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene

This morning I wanted to send you a photo essay: The Year in Volcanic Activity by Marisa Silva-Dunbar

You’d see the beauty in a fountain of lava, fires spreading across the blacktop, the necessity of creation after destruction. I drink tea—try to swallow my suspicions with lemon and honey, the bright sweetness doesn’t stop my obsession with destruction. Monday, I will try not to disintegrate—try to unravel the lies, how you once wanted a weak girl who shared the same type of destruction. I find ways to eviscerate your former paramours in conversation with others; I have been leisurely indulging in my own destruction. Sometimes I want to spill the secrets that I keep from you; I see ghosts around every corner—they poke at my fear of destruction. My anxiety is death by a thousand cuts—yours a slow suicide; we do our own dances with the Grand Dame and Varlet—Destruction Even on the days when I rage alone, I long for the nights curled next to you tracing sigils on your back to protect you from self-destruction. Archetypes sewn in my bones—I’ve mast