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Abortion

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He waited by the player,
poised.
He knew his part:
Mozart, nice and loud —
a sea of sound to wash above
the peril of her pleas and protests.
Skirt up,
pants down,
subtly muscled legs apart.
‘Hold her well back on the seat.’
And next
the soap.
The molten cake of strong carbolic,
steaming in a pan.
The broken pump from Harry’s B.S.A.,
unleashed,
erect,
in Harry’s hands.
A rigid prick,
a blindly stabbing shaft of liquid fire.
She screamed above the aria,
with head thrown back,
then forward,
hair in eyes,
her face contorted,
tears
running muddy with mascara.
Torn by pain,
she chewed her way
through sodden sock and handkerchief,
then sagged,
in straining arms
absolved,
convulsed above the gulping bowl,
the gurgling water
brilliant with blood.

First published in Second Aeon.