Dedicated to all womenfolk who have ever had hotflashes in public places.
I had one at a Buzzcock concert . . . which is some level of irony.
Buzzcock Menopause
you realize you’re staring
over a sea of leather twang
hipsters you reach out to
catch the echo of a phrase
inside your head:
youth is wasted on the young
you can only say this
because you are not young
or hipped tight the tears
fall like fancy fragments
nothing
is wrong
everything is wrong
insisting
it flows
from your eyes
your husband nods his head and lips
the tune played by a man on stage who
looks like someone’s dad
but the kids don’t mind
because he’s rockin the scene
they all know the words you
can’t hear the words like
a reverie
the breakdown builds in your face
and burns
hotter than music and
impossible to stop
you are inside yourself
looking out with nothing
to hold you solid to the ground
you excuse yourself to the lounge
to cry among the ancient rockers
in their concert t-shirts and
wedding rings
mingling
with the disassociated
girls in torn stockings and tattooed arms
checking the weight of their breasts
in each other’s eyes
you were there
wiping your tears
with your black scarf
not wanting them to see you
wanting them to see you
smiling at them seeing you
seeing you
