Not Serious

99.8 for four nights straight.

The thermometer's screen in the mirror,

my face behind it, pallid, lit — the great

diagnostic: mild. I texted the number

to my mother like a grade. She sent

four hearts, one emoji of hands clasped tight.

No offer to drive over. What she meant

by that I chose not to examine. Night

had been going on for hours. I ate

the soup cold from the pot because the spoon

was already there, and the can, and the late

fluorescent hum of the kitchen. Soon

I'd go to bed. I turned the light off.

Left the thermometer face-up on the shelf.