Acupuncture

I stare up from the table at the acupuncturist's office.
The sprinkler in the ceiling glows red
with the reflection of the heat lamp.
It focuses a wary eye on me.
I'm afraid it can read me: ungrateful
for my blessed fate.

I don't know much about ch'i or meridians,
and I hate needles.
I know that after this
I'll go get pizza.

The morning sickness hasn't gone away,
but it doesn't matter. I come here
in hopes of feeling something. A pin prick will do.
A spark, a flicker of redemption,
a cry of release.

Just out of college, I worked in a tiny office
for a crazy boss. That was back in the day
when the fax machine shrieked and wailed
at its duty. How I envied that machine.

According to the acupuncturist,
my liver is still attacking my system,
i.e., I'm depressed.

Pizza is apparently not on any of the lists
of healthy nutrition.
I take solace in my doctor's story
of her sister-in-law
who ate Cheetos
for nine months
and had a perfectly normal child.

But right now, I don't have the ch'i to argue,
and while my liver talks things over
with the acupuncturist,
I think about getting white sauce
on my pizza.

This is about hunger.
This is about being swallowed.
This is about balancing
on the point of a needle