Struck between pressures like hydrogen gas,
Oxygenated hydrogen for tears and unparted lips for a collecting-flask,
Post-partum, catching water for lies,
Emanating from her,
But no longer
A seed she was supposed to bear,
Syringing foetuses to form fodder for nightmares,
She sometimes would hear,
The child crying,
And feel the baby's corpse for a pillow,
A pool of blood for a bed sheet
And all else that runs cold below
A hardened face.
This hardened place
Where no education, no car, no music and certainly
Could ever compensate.