In Madrid, a mother woman
Married with eight daughters
Daughters of good suffering
And better to seem
Devotee of Jesus “the Poor”
She welcomed her married daughters
Like a good mother
That had already been done
Seven happy abortions
Not to reach fifteen children
What does her husband
And the priest demanded
For serving God and the Homeland.
“Yes, mom
“That I’m pregnant
“And I don’t want to have any more children.
Two is enough!”
“Tell me, what have you thought, daughter?”
“I want you to teach me
What women do to abort
Besides going to the midwife
In case these exercises
Don’t bring me to a good end.”
“Daughter, you have to be forewarned
Because husbands
They think only of fucking
With the ever-latent threat
That if you don’t let yourself be violated
They will go to whores.”
“I warn you, mother
That for going whores
My honor does not stain it
No whore.
Besides that he can hit me
Some illness.”
“Mother, what women do
To abort?”
“What the newlyweds do
And the tired of begetting
It’s what our grandmothers did, daughter:
Get on a table
The one in the dining room or kitchen
And from it jump and jump
For the bug to run
And fall to the ground.
Put parsley in the vagina
And, with it, kill the bug
As the parrot is killed.
Stick an embroidery needle
Up to the matrix
And kill the bug
Even if a little blood is spilled.
If this didn’t work
Go to the midwife’s house
And, of course, abort at ease
For four reais.
“I want to walk the street
With much satisfaction, mother
Knowing that my body is mine
Only mine
And that I can abort
When I please or like it.”
With the three repeated exercises
The daughter got nothing
Having to go to the midwife.
“Ride here on the donkey
And spread your legs”
The midwife told her
Taking it out of the womb the bug
Turning her into a dove.
“Get up from there, woman
That you are already in salvation.”
Later, the young woman was amazed
Contemplating her cunt
In front of a mirror
What was the face of a saint
Turn inside out.