Under Our Hands Poem by Grahame Lockey

A paper chase of changed addresses -
wry flatmates telling me I'd missed you,
by a month or so. You'd missed me too.
I traced you. A number. Your answers
mashed up with food you didn't look at -
a forced combination, tiny, but for two.
You'd bring it back up. You came round,

landing on my bed, stomach down, not
rolling over even for missed-you kisses.
When I touched your belly, you pinned
my hand to it with yours, my phalanges
shoulders to a ring floor. I didn't move it;
you didn't re-position it. Huffing, puffing -
something that I had to help you tell me.

It's under our hands, taking place. Ours.
You had, since I saw you with nothing on
your mind, been tried and tested, started
counting up from weeks to months. You
read me, face a monitor for violent signs,
scared by the vicious swings of imagery
weeks have made you victim to. Might

my breathing deepen like a voice, my jaw
set like plaster? Might my nostrils spread
like a livid flush, eyes flash fast like a fist?
Will I assist you out of my life - you, infirm
by some busy road or will I throw you out
like a suitcase - your shoes an afterthought?
What big execrable decision will I make?

The wrong one, in every case. I cuddle you.
I've nine months off. Thinking time. Space.
I can cross an impacific ocean, be apart
from you, yet, sloshing in its scaffolding
like a netted catch, an accidental hook
will form in your bloody waters, keeping
you at anchor harbouring futures for it,

riding every inwash I brain you with. Act.
To wait is fate decided. You groan -
evening sickness. You stumble to the loo.
If I see the child I'll look for it in everyone;
but hold it and I'll end up in its arms. Act
or be acted upon. Thinking wastes time
when the future's taking shape. My shape.