If I could choose， if it was possible， if I was worthy1， if babies homes werent crowded
if aunts and grandparents werent overburdened and I could take it all back
to the point where no man had sinned， I would rather be an angel than a saint.
I would rather float close to God and close to men than be canonized by men.
Im dying and I see a light， Im dying and I see my creator， Im dying
and the heat which fills my veins2 finally calls my lifelong bluffing3
and I leave. Lifes been so long in coming and so quick in going somewhere between
watching my parents turn hollow and smelling the rainy season come on again
and again life must have happened because now its sTOPping and I cant find
the part where life happened at all. Once， madam was explaining a sonnet4 and the turns
it can take at the end and the tensions its form carries and I thought my life is less sonnet
and more rhymed couplet beginning， it is nearly done and ending， it is still being propelled.
My lantern is fading， my coal is cooling. I want to leave this world and find another，
not stay remembered here where only Ugandans would notice me looking out
from prayer cards. Theyll pray and Ill have to be the mendicant5 for their
eyelid6 lesions and pointed7 ribs8， their mouth sores， night sweats， and patching hair；
so let me be an angel， let me watch again from above. Ill sTOP begging and
start living； please give it up， please give me up， please I want to go and meet them
the saints I prayed to， the angels who watched over me， the God who made me
in his image. I want to see if he has shrunken muscles， too and know if his mouth
grows dry in the night so he wakes swollen9 and cracking. I want this heat， this choice.
