Pill Poem by Cat Singh

I think it would feel like an abduction
to have another body growing inside of me.
I think it would feel like a thievery.

At the store, he goes to the bathroom
while I checkout.
There is some cash in my wallet,
so I feed it into the self-checkout machine.
All the bills then all the coins.
Every last penny.
And I still have to put my card in
to cover the difference.

It isn't even the morning after yet
(as the pill implies) ,
so I am ahead of the game.
I get a worker with dyed red hair
to open up the lock boxes, both of us
hunched over and reading my receipt
like a storybook in my steady hands.
I say thank-you as it's handed back to me,
my voice sounding thin and cheerful
like a child's.

When he comes back from the bathroom,
we walk out together.
I am clutching my purchase in my right hand
and holding it stiff at my side
when the anti-theft sensors go off.
The lady working the door looks at me sadly,
and I thrust my hand out in front of me
like I'm presenting her a gift. She sees it,
grasps my vulnerability in the tips of her fingers,
and turns away from the other customers
while she checks my receipt;
her back like a long shield.

I wonder, briefly, if she is hiding
out of kindness for me
or out of some
unplaceable shame.

Either way,
I swallow it as soon as we get in the car.
So much packaging
for one tiny white pill.

I think my body would feel like a jail cell
if something grew inside it
and I couldn't make it stop.
It'd eat my food and sit on my organs.
It'd beat me up from the inside out,
toying with the only remaining parts
of my body that had formerly been
untouched,
then one day, tear its way out of me
in a gory exhibition, wailing
as if it
were the one
who'd been hurt.