Can You See the Mountain?

a poem

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The mountain is there
but it's obscured by low
clouds and fog.
Let's call it the ghost
of a mountain. This late

in life, 2/3rds of the way
to the grave, I'm learning
how to tell the difference
between my simple joy
and mania and between

my simple sadness
and depression. I still
often get it wrong
but now I can see
that my childhood

was more than pain
and loneliness. I see
how my bipolar disorder
can easily turn everything
into a ghost—into low

clouds and fog. So here I am,
an Indian man who's survived
one thousand broken treaties
with my brain and will
survive one thousand more.