37 degrees is the temperature a normal body holds.
She woke up cold beside him and already knew.
He stared up blinkless–dust already forming on his pupils.
She filled him again and again,
punching in time to the tinny disconnect of the speakerphone counting with her: one and two and three and four and five. She pauses, ear to mouth on the five–listening, watching–waiting for the slow rise that never comes.
He stayed wired and tubed three days,
her head on his chest–listening for the synapse of flesh inside machine.
Now, she sleeps with cadavers
and stares blinkless, head on chest,
counting, listening inside the intervals--for the slow rise that never comes.