The full moon woke me this morning,
spilling light through the window
and splashing it across my face like
cool water from a silver pail.
I tried to keep my eyes closed against it
gripping my slumber by the tail
but the moon still beckoned me to join it.
I turned my back to the light
burrowed my face into the den
of my blankets and pillows
and tried to find my way back into the night,
as if it were a path leading into deep woods
that suddenly opens into a clearing
where a girl like me can dance.
But there is something about waking
that makes it hard to go back to sleep, makes it
harder to believe the not-mine futures I lust after
are anything more than a dream.
The full moon woke me this morning
and though I hesitated to turn on my lamp
and shatter night's illusion so violently,
even though I sought solace under these covers
a little longer, still
I reached for my paper and pen
and began to write something
in the wet white light.