The Ofi Press Magazine

Poem by Lydia Hounat (UK/ Algeria)

Published in The Ofi Press issue 41

Pill

When Tristan rocks on his chair,

He kicks the air in the gut, 

Dust motes splutter out their insides,

Atoms retch. 

Then I know this mustn't be possible,

So I pop a

Pill. 

I dance with Tristan when he cries, 

He grins, blending into the red soles of his eyes. 

But his curly hair morphs into horns,

Bloodshot skin, eyes as heavy pitch,

I drop him,

Then I know this mustn't be possible,

So I pop a 

Pill. 

I see white vans crashing into the brick wall,

But the bricks have straw stuffed inside them,

And the sofa is melting into a blood pot,

My husband is a crack cocaine addict I once dated, 

When I kiss him he stinks of ecstasy and shooting stars,

He crumbles into angel dust. 

My geraniums spill pus,

I must take another 

Pill. 

But knives shakily ask for a hug,

So I hold and squeeze my little dagger tight,

To my right arm I can see a red rose
Blooming across my veins, 

Outstretching the palms of my cheeks, 

My pill shifts over, shrugging, 
Shaking his tranquiliser beads like a common samba,

I take him, but my snake-throat can't swallow,
He buries himself, stuck in my pretty tube, splits himself into
Pills.