I’ve just had four new poems published in Root Smoke journal. Here they are, below.

https://rootsmoke.substack.com/p/melinda-coppola

 

Spring

There is nothing to say
that the green world
bursting faithfully again
into blossom

hasn’t outlined on the blank
page of our despondent hearts

and colored in from the edges
towards the center,
consuming darkness
the way regret written on paper
burns in fire.

There is no song
left untrilled
by warbler and nestling,
waterfowl and raptor,

no warm waft
unwhispered into poems
born of May breezes
gliding between branch and leaf.

Our urge to bear witness
and record what we think we see
is superfluous to greening
and song, wind
and all the writhing
verdant glory

which would do it all so perfectly
without us.

———————————————

The Red Hood

Don’t go out
alone
after dark
without permission
without purpose

for wolves await girls
who disobey.

Wolves, I tell you.
Don’t.

Go out only
as directed.

Go out
in the day,
with your hood
hiding the fine shine
in your hair.

Go out
after prayers
and only
on the arm
of your father,
your brother,
your husband,
your son.

When they die
or leave you
don’t go out
at all.

It is not safe
for the world of men,
to look upon
your strong forehead,

to meet
your dark gaze.

Your muscled arms
must stay hidden,
as with your pale ankles,
your song,
your any impulse
to original thought.

You must not arouse
their ire
their curiosity
their desire

You must not awaken your own.

Wolves, child,
await those who disobey.

Wolves with sharp teeth,
}and deep hungers.

You need our protection
from birth to death.
We will keep you safe
from yourself,

forever and always,
and to this we say
you must say
Amen.

 

__________________________

An Editor Said

Don’t send confessional pieces
from a female perspective.
Too many, so thick
with self-serving vulnerability.

 I stumble
through my burgeoning files
wondering:

Which would be deemed confessional?
Do I write to serve only myself?
If I do, is that wrong?
Is my work thick
like my calves and ankles?

I like believe the words are woven
lovingly together, a bit shy
as I excise strings of them
from my pulsing heart.

You might be hungry
for something other than bad news
so I serve poems
on a fine china platter
for your perusal
and consumption.

I like to hope
they might spark compassion,
stir understanding,
bring a tiny joy.

Perhaps I am only serving myself,
cloth napkin and all,
and my poems,
woman-made as they are,
raise only boredom,
or worse—
disdain,

as they go gushing emotion
all over the page,
dripping off the platter.
Such messy, uninspired work.

And so, Mr. editor
I’m here to say—
Yes, yes
I must profess.
My poems confess everything

All the sadness, all the joy
the aching, precious fragility
and beauty
of being
alive.

__________________________

Bemusing

If night skies
were ocean
would stars be salt,
seasoning tears of dew

and moon a mollusk shell
remembering herself
home to translucent discs
and nautili,

slick bisexual sirens
siphoning light
and dreaming of daybreak?

 

Thanks so much for reading!

Melinda