THELMA T. REYNA
Let There Be Light
I flood my rooms each daybreak--
slide drapes, lift shades, swing doors to
do the god thing: bring in light.
Outside, the moon’s a faded coin
on trees and clouds, an old woman with
her luster stripped who knows and waits.
Inside, the sink streaks gold, rays swathe
stone floors, the cat blinks and slinks down
from the tabletop, sun-blind.
My calendar can’t tell me how my day
will go, lauded or denuded, how far my
psyche slides, or if I shine.
But at dawn, my hands are wands
that banish blackness, for it’s true: what they
say, about god inside, god in each of us, how