If I cried about all the painful things I have the right to cry about today
I would kill myself.
But the last time I spoke to my nephew
I promised him
I’d be on that plane to visit in 2 months.
I have 49 days left.
49 days to stay alive
to demand joy in my life in all of the dying parts.
And I know if I choose that
I’ll get to 50.
And I know choosing ain’t always a choice.
Like, sometimes, your bones are just heavy.
And, all the time, waking up saying, I’m happy
Won’t make the assault go away
Won’t bring the body back
It may not clear the protest signs
Which is why I say it, all the time.
The pain is an intruder I wake up to.
I speak to her so that she knows I have a voice.
I do not call her a stranger.
I call her a me I have already survived.
I do not call her day 51
breakfast on the east coast
a table of healing, kindred faces
a cot on the floor of a home that housed me dirty
a return flight back to my almost clean
a phone call with nephew
a reminder that joy is always up
on its way.
Health & Illness
Joy & Praise
Strength & Resilience
the absence of a conjunction (for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so…) between phrases and within a sentence
a break between words within a metrical foot
the attribution of human qualities to a non-human thing