Alteration

Lightning flashes in the heat, twice,
illuminating my curtains.
In the cotton-wool silence I listen for
thunder, defied.

Under an empty duvet cover
I am wearing nothing but a silk scrap, which clings
and itches.

The humidity makes me
a sweaty half-harpy; three quarters
a woman.

There is still no thunder.
The lightning was brief
and half-hearted,
like my mythical metamorphosis.

What is this
thing called Summer?
Frustrated,

I rip open the mattress
with my talons.