When the pulse oximeter lies 80%
flickering, fatally dropping, she takes
my supposedly dead pointer finger
in some sort of nurse’s palmar grasp reflex
trying in vain to transfer her heat to me.
Plug in socket, the only transmissions
between us are the unspoken truths
of such a situation. Head down, she ducks 
out of the room, returns holding pediatric
equipment. The reading finally works,
correcting truthfully to 100% saturation
when the sensors finally sit snug enough
to pass light through my frozen skin. 
I am perfect, alive, just ice, just nail
polish armored to hide the blue.
With a green train on my WelchAllyn
child-sized blood pressure cuff, there is 
measurably less of me, almost 20, 
than when I was 10 years old, blood still
full of oxygen as I’m vanishing into thin air.
Full on only oxygen, I’m thinning into air.