I come to, as usual upon my back
hips and chest splayed
bruised breasts pull thin my tender heart-skin

in morning delirium I thought I held a raven-feather
sleek and sculpted for cutting air
but like a child awarded a sword
this otherworld weapon is
powerless in my grasp

this is me;
upturned beetle in my memory foam trap
(legs flailing)
no iridescent feather

just the memory of something
rescinded by the
magical night