Hot Flash Dog

She comes up for air from the depths
of the blankets,
panting desperately,
as if it were August
in Florida
and she'd been left tied out
in full sunshine,
even though it is Maine
in winter
and dark
and she was the one
who had gone to the very bottom
voluntarily
just hours before
where no air moved.

She'd started at the bend of my knees
where she curled,
and I'd fallen asleep,
back at the hour
when I needed blankets and a dog
to lead me through nighttime.

I had thrown the covers off
myself
and stuck a leg out of the bed
for air
and considered opening a window
even though it was snowing.

She was no longer there when
I became restless
and threw blankets.
She hid where no one could kick her
or warm feet
on her fur.

Now
she aligns herself with my back
and keeps her head above the covers
and I flip my pillow
to the cool side
and wipe the sweat from my chest
with my nightgown
and push the dog away from me
and open the window
and feel for pockets of cold
in the corner of the bed
and place the palms of my hands on the headboard
to bring my temperature back
to where I can
sleep.

And she commandos her way back
down to the bottom of the blankets
where there is less struggle,
and the air is still and safe