Drugstore, J.C. Scharl (March 2026)

 

Drugstore

It reveals itself slowly, over years, this place—long ago 
I saw it all as only hairclips, neon pens, and sweets. 
The rest of the expanse was less than mystery, a blank,  
more obscure than God or death for being totally unseen, 
until one day I suddenly beheld zit cream 
and tampons, remediation of the body’s first betrayals,
those precious faults by which we are awakened to our lovely
frame. I overlooked the Arizona Tea and Dinty
Moore beef stew till college midterms, when the little matter
of subsistence became a concern; at the same time 
I discovered the expanse of pharmacy, which promised little 
helps against the migraines battening on my brain and little 
helps against the sadness settling on my soul… since then 
I’ve found new realms—diapers, wipes, and baby creams 
one aisle over from adult underwear, both edges of our life
the same—and I’ve bought goods I never knew existed 
to address human conditions that I never could have dreamt, 
from searing diaper rash ruptured in yellow blisters to unhealing
burns from medic tape upon my mother’s dying arms;
then donut cushions, bedsore creams, a cane; unending bottles 
of prescriptions bearing ever-longer catalogues of warnings
nausea liver problems heart problems breathing problems death; also pacifiers, 
sippy cups, squeezy packs of pureed fruit, herbal chest rubs;
a chronicle of all we do to live in peace amidst these bodies,
until at last, the waterproof mascara, purse-sized tissue 
packs, and chenille gloves against a chilly graveside wind.
The place is mapped, at least for now; I know the paths I have
to walk. But sometimes I see signs, on top or bottom shelves,
hear whispers from those others wandering here in search of
strange offerings for pains I do not have, secret salves 
for longings I’ve not felt, and then I turn away, and leave
mysterious those dark placebos, which are content to wait.