How to Cope with Hot Flashes

also SpaghettiOs, the Eastern Seaboard, and astonishment

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ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED WITH THE ACADEMY OF AMERICAN POETS. READ ORIGINAL PUBLICATION HERE.

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First it’s only a leak so you don’t notice 

the wood softening beneath your feet 

or the spot on the carpet growing like ringworm. 

It’s December and he’d always been the one 

to drip the faucets, but now the leak, 

eager and ignored, gluts like an artery

opening itself to your kitchen. Your dog

sleeps as you undress the house alone, 

split cabinets from their cradles, pull tile 

like teeth and say you’re sorry, you really are.

The kitchen is full of skeletons:

soggy cedar chairs, a sink on the floor 

laid upside down like a trap long sprung

and damp, hand-colored photos of your family

who are somewhere else. 

Blame it on your failing

endocrine system, on the cancer

scare, on your son who just left 

for rehab, for which you also blame yourself.

Get a suite at the Holiday Inn off I-65,

say your black lab is a guide dog.

When the clerk questions you, insist

he also sniffs bombs.

Use hotel shampoo as bubble bath

and draw yourself a nice cold one.

You’ve heard of eggs frying on hot asphalt

and wonder as you fill your bellybutton 

with water if it will shimmer with ripples

of pre-boil like a pot without purpose. 

Thrust your torso above the bathwater,

let the puddle simmer and see 

for yourself. Your dog stretches his head 

over the lip of the tub and licks

the wet from your navel.