V. H. King's Ink

admitting there are more than a million ways
to say goodbye forces the clarity of unfairness—
because it happens without me realizing it, without
even wanting to. I can’t tell you if we ever move
forward or if we just learn how to carry on:

relegated to the womb of heaviness holding us
until we can hold ourselves like toddlers waking
up from their naps. unsteady and hungry for something
other than bracing ourselves through a storm
we never could have been prepared to weather.

but whether or not we are strong depends
on the day of the week and how many canceled
meetings give us an extra moment to breathe.
sometimes our faith rises and our tears dry
but there are also the moments when hope falls flat
like eggs going splat in the parking lot—and what then?

what happens when all the wrong stars align, leaving
jagged shreds in between the colors of tomorrow’s sunrise?
what should I do with the taste in my mouth
at the end of the night, when mirrors betray
the bewildered daze I’ve been forcing my way through,
trying not to think about the unanswered questions
haunting the back of my mind? when will I know

to release the cry in my throat and speak my thoughts
like I’ve got more trust than dread? how many kinds
of Flint do I need to keep a fire in my soul, or will I
drown in another century overrun with sludge and smog
from every life struggling to get by? I tell other people
no matter what, they will do more than just survive.
I promise some small part will still flourish; I can yet thrive
despite whatever mess has been made of my life.