Late Bloom
for Jim Harrison and my mother
Someone found his friend lying on the floor collapsed
in the pond of his body
he had no chance of denying death or saying so long
His friend had a hard life even though he laughed a lot
and made use of his time figuring out how guns work
and how to skin animals and live off a bottle in the sun
like an old timer although he knew Sanskrit and sang
mightier than almost anyone even when they stared
maybe with a kind of dread
at someone whose face was so alive
with lines they felt afraid of their own absence from living
A friend of mine knew this guy and depression
but mostly the bright alleys
his pen made for others to rest in or maybe to wallow in the beauty
of wriggling words going straight at what mattered most
And it felt natural for me to think of my mother
who has been told she’s depressed and
maybe she is or isn’t and the dead man really wasn’t either
I don’t think so even though she says, “It’s chemical you know?”
Only I think its because well how else can she tell us the real
reason which I’ve finally figured out
when she cries out all times of day “oh” and “oh god”
and even “shit,” it’s only because she knows there is so much inside
that will never get out more than is meant for a single lifetime
how many one can’t tell she is so full her mind bursting
with grief over the fact of her tethered blooming
oh it hurts so much to bloom and not be able to tell it to any of us
maybe not one person in the world anymore
with a heart that blooms so deep you can’t see into it
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Originally published in Willawaw Journal, 2018
