1.
My first began with green
zig-zags like the line
up-downing on the Dow.
I couldn’t see, so how
could I doomscroll my condition?
I gave in, closed my eyes;
in time the nightmare vision
of neon graphs was gone.
Then I met with Dr. Chan
(in the cutest turquoise shoes
with satin bows at the toes:
oh, grant me yet more years
of joy in the world’s colors!),
who said a luckily pain-
free “ocular migraine”
was the likely diagnosis.
Advice? A long, unwitting
joke, her list of common
triggers to avoid:
under- or overeating,
too much, too little sleep,
hormonal changes (sorry,
that menopausal ship
sailed long ago for me);
also, she continued,
changes in medication,
changes in the weather
(can I stop the rain?),
and stress. Cut it altogether
along with its cure, red wine.
I smiled at her shoes and nodded.
Sure, is what I said.
2.
Sleep apnea split my nights
into catnaps. An apparatus
with a pleated breathing tube
like the coil that sucks exhausted
hot air from the dryer
was meant to prevent a stroke
or heart attack, but wrapped
itself around my neck.
For weeks I’d lie on my back,
entangled, nearly strangled,
thinking of all the torture
methods of the past.
Who wouldn’t prefer the rack?
Enough. I drove to the clinic
and returned the vile device.
May it rest in peace
and may the man I defied,
a glum pulmonologist
who didn’t fool me, but tried
his hardest to pretend
he wouldn’t judge my choice,
blot me from consciousness.
That’s what I aim to do.
Whenever now I choke
myself awake, I vow
not to succumb to panic
and slip out of bed, believing
that love is also leaving
a husband to his slumber.
I mosey to the kitchen
to make some tea or cocoa;
if there’s a donut, I down it.
Then I stretch out on the sofa,
where I turn on a whodunit.
I’ve drifted off to them all—
soon after the first scene
of somebody’s bloody end
which happens not to be mine.
And waking up is fine.