Table of Contents
Little pink tablet,
smooth-edged promise,
stamped plainly:
Pfizer on one cheek,
25 LLN on the other—
three pressed nightly
through foiled windows,
serials and stamps
faint as breath
in aluminum skin,
each blister cracking
a crisp metallic curse
beneath my thumb.
Every evening,
I cradle your trio,
pale pebbles resting
like softened bullets
in a cupped palm,
film-coated bitter blessing
should you linger
a second too long
on a dry tongue
before cool water
nudges you downward—
a ritual refined by need,
perfected by repetition.
Your chemicals
whisper harsh truths—
headaches blossoming
behind bleary eyes,
words unraveling sideways
into brain-fogged hush,
cholesterol rising
like invisible bruises,
numbers rising on monthly reports
I never wished
to read.
Yet faithfully,
I swallow you,
my flawed companion,
Pfizer-stamped protector,
quietly made in Freiburg,
boxed bureaucratically in Brussels,
dispensed freely in Prague—
no cost at the lékárna,
yet never without toll.
Each dose both leash
and lifeline,
each morning a maybe
tethered to the certainty
of side effects.
So here’s my humble gratitude,
Lorviqua—
double-edged healer
in pastel armor,
bitter miracle
cradled nightly
in tired hands:
you lace me with side effects, yes,
but also breath,
also days,
also time borrowed
from the teeth of chance—
and so I take you,
again and again,
pink pills pried
from foil
into fragile life.
Comments