98.6

I check it like a habit,

like checking for a wallet,

for keys, for proof

I'm still in one piece.

The number holds still at 98.6—

that stubborn middle,

the average of fine,

the temperature of nothing wrong.

But I needed it to tell me something,

needed the red line to climb

or sink, to prove

I have a fever for certainty.

Instead it stays.

Stays like a fact

I can't dispute,

stays like the moment before you speak

and decide not to.

I'm looking for a sign

in the most mundane measurement,

as if the body keeps the secrets

the mind can't hold.

But here's what it says:

nothing. Nothing at all.

Just 98.6 and a hand

that won't let it go.