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.
