God, when I die,
will I be able to fly
above the clouds?
Will I be able to time
travel and see myself being
born and celebrated?
God, what was the top
Hip Hop or R&B song
on my true birth day?
Can that be the soundtrack of my voyage?
When I die, will I listen to my ancestors
and rock to their stories
on glowing porches?
Will hours feel like milliseconds?
Will I forget about the function of time
that the blanketed me
in scattered flaw skin
worried so much about?
When I die, will my bladder take a chill pill?
Will I visit dreams like amusement parks,
saying “I still see you” to my loved ones
sleeping in alternate universes?
God, when I die, will it hurt?
God, when I die, will Polaroids
of moments that seemed inconsequential
reveal more in my mind?
Like that one time a stranger
I was kind to turned out
to be an angel?
God, when I die, will there ever be an inappropriate time
to laugh till my stomach hurts?
God, when I die, will you cry at all,
at least for a bit?
Weeping with the wilting
of my heartbeat
God, when I die, can all them songs
I’m sick of hearing
on the radio
go in the ground too
and never live again?
God, when I die, what concerts
you got on the lineup?
Can I be VIP at Tupac, Whitney,
and Otis Redding?
God, be honest with me, no one has to know.
When I die, can you tell me
if you were team Pac or Biggie?
Team Prince or MJ?
(I can keep a secret)
God, when I die, will it feel
like heaven
to forget about myself
and worship you forever?
Will forever ever grow old?
Will old no longer exist?
Will I remember Andre
saying “forever, forever ever
forever ever?”
God, when I die, may I find comfort in knowing that I lived well because I gently
never forgot about dying?
God, when I die, can you gorilla glue me
through the mysterious moment?
God, when I die, can I be content
with having been known
by my people
and disliked by some?
God, when I die,
even if I’m forgotten
by name
after the passing
of three more generations,
may my love be stubborn and stay on the earth.
God, when I die, I might feel afraid.
I might not know to expect it.
But maybe, I will.
God, when I die, I want my people to throw a party, purple dressed, grateful
at the gallery of every photo
I annoyingly took?
God, when I die (I know this is egotistical, but hear me out), may my laugh go down in the history books?
Archive it.
Preserve it.
Give it away for free.
God, when I die, I’ll pray for others
to have joy with texture,
like I had,
a cackle and a giggle
that stares down pain
and says, “You can’t shut me up!”
God, right before I die,
can I be alive
for enough time
to pray for these things?
Roots & Hope 