The Squeeze

The nurse is humming something under her breath.

She wraps the velcro tight around my arm.

I’m sitting here, thinking of salt and death,

and how my chest feels like a false alarm.

The sleeve begins to bloat, a heavy snake

that bites down hard until the thumping starts.

I feel the pulse, the rhythmic, dull ache

of the motor that runs the worst of my parts.

It kicks against the fabric, trying to flee,

a frantic animal in a nylon cage.

I stare at the wall, at the degree

on the frame, while I feel a quiet rage

at my own plumbing. Then the screen blinks red:

142 over 95. A flat, digital glare.

I’m failing the audit, just like she said.

I breathe out slow, but there’s no more air.