The sun sinks into the sea
but the moon is another kind of rising,
like the lilt of a song but without the sound,
a drum-less palo, a choir of departing gulls.
It has the air, the breezy cadence of a fateful moment
but, as I head towards home, it turns perfect.
The lights ahead are a human constellation,
the public eyes of the ones who make do,
most inside now, concluding this day
in the manner of all days, the light
nudged westward, the dark overseer,
and the old moon of the Taino,
held over for these times.
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Mixed Mag, The Mantle and The Art Of Everyone.