The Morning: Ovulation

 
I wake in the same dress I was KOed in,
mind on huh,
drifting between spaces
laced with vertigo,
while laying. Toes are cold.
The gingerly shifting light is cold.
The fluffed syrinx of a bird
in birch beyond the fence
also cold.
You'd think I'd know better by now,
perhaps rebellion has teeth in my bloodstream,
I'd like to say I mind the taste
of a little self destruction
but don't. Coincidentally I blind myself
with the torch provided on the back of the phone,
all to read pages
that'll evoke something I can't seem to muster
safely
out there,
in the whoosh and swell of it,
the threads of connections
meant to be gently played,
not pulled. See,
full moon always paints me
more wolf than woman,
something to contain,
I go on reading,
recall last night,
how uncaged I can be -
the sky shifts into red,
I still don't move for change.