The Pill[ow]. Poem by Mary X

Who remembers
the divine abortion
standing by itself looking
like a lost-girl;
picking up paper

in the little café,
slithering with its
leaflets, magazines,
newspapers and
HIV oyster-cards.

Ignore.

I’m my only
confusion,
my only mine.
Who remembers the beggar
tapping on the door?

Who remembers the beer
snatching maniacs
ordering a soul?
Who remembers my
abortion flicking
through
literature?

Who could never
understand the consequence?

Who is the one that
always takes the tears?

The answer becomes
perfectly clear.

Mary X.