I call it bloom because
that’s not dying.
We’re about to see the bloom,
I told my friend.
It’s growth but not a flower.
Not canna not rose,
not casket nor corpse;
it just means something
has opened.
My friend draws blood. He says
he cried last Sunday. Another counsels
the sick and the doctors
on the floor.
I’m home with children keeping
peace and cooking rice,
answering questions
when they come. I choked
the first time one asked
How long?
This bloom leads
to a peak, and we can’t
see how high it goes. We
know it’s a mountain,
and people die climbing.
Every year you hear
someone froze
on the way up or
fell down. This bluff
boasts the biggest drop
of all. This crag looms
like Kilimanjaro. Many,
many will perish.
Two months,
I said, maybe.
Everyone’s talking
numbers and I’m not
listening. I’ll falter. I’ll
stop cooking the rice,
feed us ricin beans
instead.
I’m afraid of everyone
dying. This is why
you can’t give me odds.
Outside, two bulbs are
blooming. March flowers down South
but this is April in Chicago—
we call them daffodils and
cut the stems knowing
snow may still cover
the beds and blossoms.
They signal life. Omens.
More will follow.
