Item 293.7 Rural History Museum, 30/04/2221

by Hannah Hodgson

In two hundred years all archaeologists will find of my life
will be plastic bungs. I fall asleep on them. I am the princess
who can’t feel her peas. They leave me bullseyed, looking
as if a tick has bitten and left redness as its triumph.
All they will find are these stoppers which prevent my body
from getting contaminated. They come in boxes of three thousand,
enjoy running between my fingers into the guttering, finding
their way into nooks in the car. They have tiny nubs
inside of them, filling the orifice of a syringe. My life
has always been about stopping. The pause before,
prevention of secondaries. I’d bury a locket
if I didn’t think it’d be stolen by an anorak with a metal detector.
I’d bury a syringe if they couldn’t test it for opiates.
Here I bury the artificial pea of my pauses.