wyrdwind

Night Blooming

Grandpa who raised me

until I was eight, my world,

was many things.

Musician, singer, athlete, carpenter,

biology major, mechanical engineer

in the army. One thing in particular

bound us together. Enraptured

by Disney’s Fantasia, until the VHS

burned through.

To everyone else it made no sense.

No words, only instrumentals

set to wildly diverse animations,

stories within stories, a full orchestra.

The first creative experiment

of its kind.

Everything, everywhere, all at once.

But no matter how you mix it up,

there’s a universal thread,

and trained to its tension

you’ll always find your way.

He dropped dead in my bathroom.

I don’t remember much for a bit

after that.

Staring at the back of a pew

wondering why the adults were so sad.

When someone bothered to check,

I was just playing pretend

with my makeshift toys

minding my business on the trailer floor

for hours.

My parents warned my teachers

of potential disruption. Upset.

Grandpa had been

my favorite.

I was a perfect angel.

Silent. Tranquil. Stoic. So much so,

my handsy and unruly

assigned seat peers

quickly learned to mind

direction.

Who loved me best

was someplace within

and I strove to reach him.

Nourishment.

Outside

there was not much.

In fact, much, much less.

If I tried sharing myself

it was either a stone wall

or a listless stare followed by

“…cool.”

The only place

I ever belonged had gone

somewhere. The last man

who ever saw me. Person

in general. Whole.

It’s okay, you can just

decide not to be alone

without anyone’s help.

Be someplace else yourself.

A double life. Hidden

realm.

Perhaps

they thought it mercy

to never acknowledge

or encourage me, a bloom

barren soil couldn’t afford

to feed.

Always the one mouth

too many.

Better to remain

a misspent seed. For so long

I agreed. I was allowed books

because those were free.

From the library at least.

I was nobody

from nowhere with a future

of nothing.

Unseen.

Until quite recently. Tonight,

a Zuni story about the plant Datura

tells of a girl and a boy

who found a secret path to the surface

from the underworld. Together.

Twins. They made themselves

flower crowns

and gained power over dreams,

sleep, and the dead. These gifts

weren’t meant to be imposed

upon mortals above ground.

When the sun gods found out,

they didn’t send them back down.

The forbidden twins vanished

hand in hand.

Their flowers grow where they went,

where they left, but nothing really leaves

that exists. Those sun gods took credit, but.

Some phantom scent

dispersed at dawn.

Something slips

from the corner of your eye.

Datura is a Solanaceae,

pollinated by sphinx moths,

associated with indigenous shamans

and the ancestors, roots

used under strictest protocols, methods

honed over generations.

Absolutely toxic, never safe,

the smallest piece is dangerous, concentration

so unpredictable once taken form

that it’s impossible

to calculate a consistent dose. Do not touch.

Just as only the plant knows how much

poison is where, only your ancestors

can train this…gift. Pray they are kind,

their love thick and honeyed golden as mine,

your shadows readily sit pretty

and feed from fingertips, barest brush.

Make good with your dead.

It’s effects

include extreme psychosis, that is

auditory and visual hallucinations, vivid

and completely indistinguishable from reality—

Waking nightmares, no euphoria and never pleasant.

Eldritch delirium.

It can take away your pain

as a maker of ghosts. What you become.

Keeps you under for surgery or

to set a bad break. Fine line that or

total central nervous system collapse.

Stormy behavior. Depression. Panic attacks.

Permanent brain damage.

Blackouts. Holes.

Missing memories.

Death.