Abort

Struck between pressures like hydrogen gas,

Oxygenated hydrogen for tears and unparted lips for a collecting-flask,

Post-partum, catching water for lies,

For sighs,

Emanating from her,

From him,

For 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

No Man

Could ever compensate.