Conversations with a Ghost

A Dead Friend Speaks

Almost a year
into my exit from flesh,
what we call,
when embodied,
death,

You talk to me,
wonder if I help
when you struggle and worry,
soothe
when you rage and grieve.

You ask
if I’ve retained shape
and color,
if my long and wild hair,
blonde with streaks of fine silver,
still tumbles down my back,
if I jog and cycle daily
in some shimmery,
cancer-free realm.

Am I still an I,
you query

or has my essence
mixed and mingled
with all the others
wafting in great waves
of something like wind
around and through
cosmic caves
and mountains
glowing in a light
your human brain
can only begin to imagine.

I will neither
confirm nor deny,
sister of my soul.

These
are not your questions,
you
do not
seek answers.

You have always known,
were the one
to reassure me
as my flesh wasted
and my fears grew.

Look for dragonflies,
I said,
and a couple dozen
appeared
in odd places
after I left.

My disembodied
face floats in corners,
signature hair swirling
as if I just dipped
my head
beneath my new surface,
peering through the murky waters
checking in on you.
Sometimes you look up,
acknowledge me,
smile.

Why, then,
do you question?

I am not an I,
but I am as me
as any of us ever are,
just as you
were alive before incarnation,
and will live on
after you discard your body.

Trust is a thick cloak
woven tight with
threads of wisdom
and surrender.

It will always
keep you warm,
as long as you remember
to put it on.

–Melinda Coppola, remembering Marina Powdermaker, who was born 8/27/61 and left her body 6/28/20. We do speak often, she and I.

For some who left

STAY

I want to dematerialize
and put myself back together
between his reedy young body
and the gun he stole
from his Uncle’s desk drawer
the night they
invited him for dinner.

I want to land hard
between her hands—
the same hands that
had just held
an acceptance letter
for the DC job of her dreams—
and the noose
she’d fashioned in secret
six months ago.

I want to hitchhike
way back to 1981 Vermont,
grab all those who knew him,
and beam us, every one,
to the edge of that Hawaii
volcano where they said
he’d jumped,
so we could form a human barricade
between his anguish
and that black hole.

I want to sing,
yell, cajole, say

It will get better.
It can,
I promise you

The world’s gonna need
you next week, next year,
you’re gonna leave a hole
that can’t be filled

and somewhere there is
someone who will
love you so much
you’ll be wrecked to think
you could ever have left
before you crossed paths

and someday
there’ll be a moment—
a car, a bike,
a wet road
distracted driver—
a child whose life
you will save

whose children
will cure cancer.

Please,
I want to say
don’t go.
Not yet.

Please,
let’s sit
and warm the ground
awhile.

–Melinda Coppola
#nationalpoetrymonth