Today I am electric. I woke up at the end of a dream, and you were there. I saw the morning, the earlier light that dresses everything in the need to be known: quietly, deliberately, in time. Warm shower, cool air, wild hair. My voice is airy, it is snagging on sickness-- good enough to croon but not for what I need to do. I am nervous, fidgeting but I am telling myself-- keep your arms open, pretend the stage is three times this size, these faces are unfamiliar and far. Sing like you did before. You are the morning. You are electric.
Loose live wire. Sparks on the floor, the walls; my angles and curves, my walk, the turn of my head, all shooting off agitated light. I am escaping, in spurts. Reserve so shocked it dissolves and soon all I'll be is glowing. Turn myself inside out: I am better this way. Radiation you can touch, or it will reach to you. I will reflect and bend and when I break I'll make beauty.
I hold the morning in my belly; I swallow it like a flood and it fills me. Precious low light, more golden, intimate-- I can emerge in your protective shade, and lay myself out, calm and bare.
I have so much to give, so long as I let light be light-- then he will hold me like he does, warm me through and draw me out and all I'll be is glowing.