Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
Let the cicada vow silence
as a woman stirs her grits
and beats her eggs. Let daylight come.
Let school children shuffle into yellow
buses. Let the asphalt roll out black
into the distance. Let daylight come.
Let the dew dry to ash on the brow
of a man. Let traffic thunder across
the overpass above his head. Let daylight come.
To his bottle in the ditch, to his cardboard
and crayon, to the cough in his lungs,
let daylight come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. This, too, is the day
the Lord has made, so let daylight come.
Added: Thursday, July 3, 2014 / Used with permission.
Antoinette Brim is the author of three poetry collections: These Women You Gave Me (Indolent Books, 2017), Icarus in Love (Mag Street Rag Press, 2013), and Psalm of the Sunflower (Aquarius Press/Willow Books, 2010). A Cave Canem Foundation fellow, a recipient of the Walker Foundation Scholarship to the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, and a Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry, memoir, and critical work have appeared in various anthologies, journals, and magazines. A sought-after speaker, editor, educator, and consultant, Brim is an Associate Professor of English at Captial Community College. Learn more at Antoinette's website.
