The Backness of My Eyelids

I lie in bed and cross myself
from head to chest,

then shoulder to shoulder,
then clasp my hands
and shut my eyes,

and I can see nothing.

But I choose to see you there—
your right hand holy,
turned out for me;

my second mother, robed
in white beside,
a golden sunrise
at her feet.

I see all this
in the blackness
of the backness
of my eyelids,

where what is
and what I
wish to be
meet.

January 13, 2026