November finds her rising
before daybreak,
shaking off dreams
that scuffle and bruise and bleed.
She slips outside
into predawn darkness
stands alone on the back porch
listening for birdsong,
wind scattering dried leaves,
or the low hum
of trucks on the highway.

She still hears pounding.

Shivers tighten the robe
around her neck
like fingers that choked
hands that shoved
fists that brought the darkness.

Day breaks to fractured bits --
a dorm room in shambles
eyes swollen shut
clothes tattered, torn,
bits of brown leaves
caked in mud,
strewn about.

Back inside
she scoots past
a yawning husband
cuts past the unmade coffee pot
shuts herself inside the bathroom --
but the cold water cannot purge
the taste of blood
or the memory of eyes
that blazed madness.

​