V. H. King's Ink

i told myself to be angry 
enough to live, because that is
my god-forsaken right. that's
what it feels like, these days 
when i don't know how to pray
the way they taught me. but i
always been a stubborn student

so i stay angry, and i live
because my uncle died last year 
and I'm still not over it. 
i live, because my grandmother won't
make it to the end of the month
and i don't know how badly
it'll fuck up my breathing when i see
her body in the casket for the last

time. i keep telling myself 
we had time, but it's been too much
of the wrong kind—too long since
she knew who i was, but maybe 
she still does, always did, still might. 

i find myself wondering if her mother
will meet her, stern and strict. will her
daddy criticize her with a smile? or is all 
that behind them now? what's heaven 
like, when you don't want your baby 
to come home until it's time but you exist 
where there are no seconds, no hours, 
no years, no chances, no tears left? 

what was God thinking when deciding 
salvation could only be suffering 
and sacrifice? what kind of freedom 
is that, from life? i haven't made up my mind 
on much, except to keep living, for now—

because I'm angry about all this and it keeps 
me seeing every reason to stay here, to reach 
out, to love everyone else who hurts this 
much. i wonder if I'm ready, this time.