Vital Signs

The black sleeve tightened

until I could feel the throb

of every mistake I’ve made since June.

My arm turned into a drum

beaten by a desperate, trapped fist.

The screen blinked 145 over 92.

A bright, digital warning

while the pharmacist counted out

thirty little white shields.

I pulled the tab

and the Velcro screamed—

a long, jagged rip

that sounded like someone

tearing a bandage off the air.