Joy #1

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.