Clinical Contact

The pharmacy is bright and smells like mint.

I sit on the high stool by the glass

and slide my arm into the sleeve.

The nurse has cold fingers but a heavy palm

as she adjusts the Velcro across my skin.

It’s the first time in three months

someone has touched me without needing change

or a signature on a handheld screen.

The machine hums, squeezing the blood

until I can feel my own pulse

pounding against her thumb.