Spotted in a 7-Eleven in North Hollywood

It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.

The first time I needed one, I
visited a chemist in London,
murmuring to a middle-aged man
across the counter
as if I asking for marijuana.
He made me stand aside and wait
while he served other people
and I tried to look as if I regretted
having sex on a Tuesday night
without it being signed-for in triplicate.
Should I explain it was my boyfriend’s birthday?
I stood watching the people collect their sexless
prescriptions, hearing my animal-like breath.
When I was judged to look remorseful enough,
I handed over a pound
for every year of my life
and left gripping the paper bag
as if it were my mother’s hand, walking along
staring at the slick mirrored pavements
in case I met anyone from work
who might ask what I had in the bag.

The next time, I was asked to explain
what had happened
before I could hand over my money.
I could tell the man didn’t believe
The condom split.

The third time, my then-boyfriend came.
We were taken into a back room
for a consultation with a woman whose face rippled
with distaste when I said the word sex.
As we left, I saw my boyfriend look down
at the hand that clutched the bag
as if it glittered with slug trails.

Two decades later, I stand
with my husband and two children
in the 7-Eleven in America and imagine
picking up that packet,
the half-awake girl behind the counter
scanning and handing it over
with our chewing gum, suncream and melatonin.

Sam Szanto is an award-winning writer living in Durham. Her poetry pamphlets This Was Your Mother and Splashing Pink – a 2023 Poetry Book Society Pamphlet Choice – were published by Dreich Press and Hedgehog Press respectively. Facebook: sam-szanto, Instagram: samszantowriter, Blue Sky: samszanto.bsky.social