Artwork by Autumn Riddle

 

Menopause. It Could Be Your Next Big Adventure.

If you're dissociative enough, menopause is a breeze,
hot flashes fleeting as shadows of jets passing low
over the city—and if you're careful,

you'll emerge on the other side grateful you're able
to change your surroundings, while so many cannot,

and no one with power will reach out to you with intention
to harm—at least no one who knows your name.

Meanwhile, may love follow you like confetti, like hail
bouncing off cars, an expulsion of bats from the smoky
mouth of a cave, the long, soapy ribbons dancing
in a carwash.

Oh that click, when the track locks on your tires.
Oh that lurch into the tunnel.

 

Scooping Death Out Of The Deep End

One fall our neighbor—all good wool and cashmere—
leapt in to scoop a drowning fawn, its hooves sharp

as glass. I reenact his gallantry, rake the surface
of the pool with a net, harvest a chipmunk dissolving

in the deep end and retrieve a salamander punched
by a water jet and sent spinning, toes splayed, pliant

as vinyl scored with sound. He rides the green square
of mesh through cool air. He is small as candy,

eyes scalded, dull, and tumbles into the nest
of my hand. Gentle as Kong, I breathe on that slip
of flesh and he thrashes his tail, imprint cooling
my palm. I rented that house with a lover,

three summers in a row. The pool appears
in dreams, even after all these years.