It’s barely morning and we’re already awake,
my grandmother in the kitchen ironing
our Sunday clothes.
I can hear Daddy coughing in his bed, a cough like
he’ll never catch his breath. The sound catches
in my chest as I’m pulling my dress
over my head. Hold my own breath
until the coughing stops. Still,
I hear him pad through the living room
hear the squeak of the front screen door and
know, he’s made it to the porch swing,
to smoke a cigarette.
My grandfather doesn’t believe in a God
that won’t let him smoke
or have a cold beer on a Friday night
a God that tells us all
the world is ending so that Y’all walk through this world
afraid as cats.
Your God is not my God, he says.
His cough moves through the air
back into our room where the light
is almost blue, the white winter sun painting it.
I wish the coughing would stop. I wish
he would put on Sunday clothes,
take my hand, walk with us
down the road.
Jehovah’s Witnesses believe
that everyone who doesn’t follow
God’s word will be destroyed in a great battle called
Armageddon. And when the battle is done
there will be a fresh new world
a nicer more peaceful world.
But I want the world where my daddy is
and don’t know why
anybody’s God would make me
have to choose.