The Reading

The cuff tightened, a slow, insistent squeeze,

like a handshake from a stranger you can't please.

The plastic hummed, a tiny, clinical prayer.

Her mask a flat line, no feeling there.

Then the hiss, the breath leaving,

and the numbers, red, against the beige wall,

staring, accusing, standing tall.

A silent alarm, a bell for grieving.

One thirty over eighty-five.

Just a pair of digits, keeping me alive.

But they hang in the air, a different weight,

a new knowledge, sealing some small fate.

My body, suddenly, a map with new lines,

all these quiet, internal, urgent signs.