The pills have come from New Zealand, by way of Vanuatu.
The wrapper is that plain one, brown, in the best porn-shipping tradition.
I find myself hidden away to see the contents alone: buried in white Styro popcorn, the small white box; within it, a clear polyethylene wheel, bearing twenty-eight blue pellets, each carefully matched to its ordinary day: Mo, Tu, We, Th, Fr, Sa, Su.
Today, which is Sa, is, however, no ordinary day.
I read, for the first time and also the last, the three hundred dreadful side effects, not without interest, not without concern.
I am not young, after all, and my heart comes from a long line of stutterers.
After, having set down the water-glass, I step into full gardener’s light; with trembling hands, I reach for string and scissors, watching a woman’s shadow, on straw, bending to her tasks.
Today, she will train peas.