CACTUS BLOOM

The cactus bloomed last night.
Three inches across, cream color at the center,
Pale pink tendrils swimming in iridescence.
Fingers of green grasped the whole thing, offering it up to the moonlight as a sacrifice.

The flower will die before the sun does today.
It will shrivel and dry, will fall off and leave a lump.
I brought the huge plant home one Saturday
And even while potting it, I overlooked the buds,
Artichoke ornaments hung on an ugly, prickly tree.

Later, showered and shiny clean,
A single bloody slice of red flesh on the rusted grill,
I felt it happen, a visual slap, a quickening of the heartbeat: inexpressible beauty. Three blooms had sprouted
Where only buds had been two hours before.

The stamen of one of the blooms jiggled, a bee
Taking the nectar as a blessing on this singular night.
Chris wanted to talk about death, but he couldn’t,
Only about the end of life, which was far worse,
The shriveling, the pain.

If only his cycle was ordained as precisely
As the cactus blossom’s, never lasting
more than a day. It’s the uncertainty that terrifies,
You’d think the terminally ill could at least
Get a reliable schedule.

AIDS had robbed him of the illusions
of the young and the foolish.
He knew he would die, just not when.
No convenient sun or moon provided a final tidy ending.
Instead, each day a coda of suffering.

In its prelude to release,
A dying cactus bloom becomes all stink and no perfume,
A life without reward,
Except perhaps for the moments
When beauty slaps and helps us to forget.