When all this is over…

WHEN THIS IS OVER

Bring bread,
chewy and warm,
wrapped in that red
checkered tablecloth
that always sings
picnic,

which is short for
happy family,
easy friendships,
peace and plenty
in our town
state
country
planet.

We never went on one,
a picnic,
not once in all our
together years

even though we had that red
checkered cloth,
and enough love
and hope
and time.

Bring bread, baby,
while we can still bake
and chew,
while we can still be
alive together,

while earth still
hosts the wheat, the rye,
the farmer, so trusting,
sowing seeds.

–Melinda Coppola

Prospecting for Grace

Praise

The faithful sun,
generously stirring
energies of Earth
and atmosphere,
coaxing every green thing
towards the rising
song of spring.

Parents
walking with their children
outside, smiling
and laughing, nodding
at neighbors
out washing their cars.

Quieted streets
yielding their usual
ruthless noise
to melodious birdsong,
squirrels rustling in the brush,
the wind whistling
in the still bare branches.

Moon, conducting
the rise and fall
of seas everywhere,
the call and response,
organic and lyrical,
in all bodies of water,
even ours.

Every incremental sign
that goodness and hope
are alive and well,
seeding us with patience
through this reckoning time—

There I’ll set my gaze,
invite my pen to praise
all that.
Praise all that.

–Melinda Coppola

The Uninvited Guests

What a time! We are seeing and hearing wide ranging effects of the Covid-19 pandemic on, it seems, every populated part of our planet.

In our corner of the world, Bink’s autism and accompanying dependence on schedules has collided headfirst with current realities. Every activity in her life, from her weekday program to her favored leisure activities, has been cancelled. Much of the structure she counts on has fallen away. Anxiety and perseveration, already frequent visitors in our home, have announced their return. They brought lots of luggage, too, apparently planning to stay awhile.

Will we get through it? Of course. Many have far worse situations. This is, however, a particular kind of challenge for Bink and others like her. She asks many questions, and fully expects me to have the answers.

Longing

to help you know
in your bones, child,
in your bones,
this will pass.

This will pass and
I’m longing
to have you know
we will again be free
to dip in and out
of those beloved scrawls
on your wall calendar—

horse riding,
and art class,
the candy and craft stores,
restaurants,
swimming at the Y,
and your weekly volunteer job
neatening the bins
at the toy store,
pricing stuffed animals.

You will
once again
return to your day program
where you may even welcome
those groups
you do not love.

I know in my bones,
which are just older versions
of your own,
that this will pass by,

all things do,
and we will re-rise,
rise again,
grateful and eager
to push forth into the
too-loud world,

carrying earplugs
and fidget toys,
your soft pink ball
of yarn.

Until then,
my frightened
full grown child,

I will be here,
right here,
to answer your questions,
daily, hourly,

No,
this won’t for last 100 days.
No,
this won’t be for your whole life.

Yes, we’ll go out walking
today
and tomorrow,
and every day.

No
this won’t be forever,
No
I don’t know the day,
the hour
it will end.

Yes,
the power will stay on,

this will pass.
I’m longing
to help you know
this will end.

—Melinda Coppola

Communicable


PROPAGATION

I’ve taken to humming
in the produce section
while caressing the plums,
sneaking sniffs
of the cilantro,
eyeing the lemons,
audacious in their yellowry.

It’s a low, soothing thing,
the thrum of air
over vocal chords,
nearly a buzz,

and I am almost
a bumblebee,
hovering over color,
circling the end caps

as I admire
the mottled plantains,
the papery shallots
with their secret,
chambered cloves.

Outside the store
there are doomsayers
on every sharp corner,
the shattered remains
of a national normalcy
cutting feet,
drawing blood,
speculation,
and despair.

Even the sunlight
serves only to magnify
the sparkle of
all that broken glass.

The lines in the parking lot
seem repainted every night,
with more space
between the spaces,
to keep the usses
from door-dinging
the thems,

but inside
the flamboyant vegetables
nestle up to their neighbors,
fragrant fruits
and bags of nuts
coexisting,

and there I’ll go
humming and hovering,
covertly cross pollinating,
to propagate
a kinder world.

–Melinda Coppola

FISHING

Perched on the frost hardened bank
of the wide, cold river,
eyes intent on the rushing water,
dark and high,

I notice the greenish
brown river grasses,
rooted hopefully in their muddy beds,
in a permanent lean
as the current pulls them forward,

and my eyes train between the reeds,
strain towards that bottom
where I might glimpse gray,
or mottled brown,
perhaps a shape
unlike rock or branch,
something undeniably fish.

It’s late,
and wearily, determined,
I step into the freshet,
tossing pail and net aside,
boots sinking into the thick
organic carpet
lining the raging stream.

Now bent-kneed, hunched,
all my senses joining
with the forceful rush of water,
I feel things pressing, jostling,
knocking on my rubber clad calves,

and I’m shivering, such a
cold day for fall, wondering
if I’m delirious or
if perhaps the catfish,
the crappies,
the brown river trout
have finally
come to call,
and

are they taunting,
or urging me to name them,
call them forth,
lift them from the frenetic fray
into the bright relief
of their afterlife?

I plunge my hands
into the frigid waters,
grabbing at any shape
I think I see,
pulling out stones loosened
by the swollen rush,
and hunks of half-composed leaves
still attached to their rotting branch,
and,

gloves now soaked,
I am tossing handfuls
of dubious treasure
up onto the hard earth

when,
hands numbing
from the icy wet,
my eyes go to an odd form
amid the shiny tangle
of cast off debris
trembling on the bank.

It’s a little crayfish
on his back, caught in the clog
of dirt and stone,
tail flipping uselessly
towards the white underbelly,
claws open,
the bright sun
turning tiny, stunned eyes
to shiny marbles
and

my purpose becomes tenderness,
compassionate curiosity
as I reach my wet gloved hands
under his small dark back,
scoop him from the tangle,
and right him
to meet the earth.

He pauses, stance wide,
lifts his impressive little claws
up and out
as if to say
come no closer,

and then he’s off, eyes
still fast on my foreign face,
tail flipping to scoot him
backwards into the river.

Peeling off those soggy gloves,
warming my freed and icy hands
with steamy exhalations,
I sense the little crustacean
returned to his wild waters,
watching from the depths,

and I want to
imagine him grateful
for the wake up call,
full of new appreciation
for his river, his claws,
his small, powerful tail.

I suppose I’m projecting,
because that’s what we
humans do,
dripping our fears and
hypotheses all over
the plants and animals
around us,

pulling poems from their hunt,
their flower,
stories from their mating rituals,
always seeking ourselves
in their purposeful, focused lives.

I am sated, spent, complete,
gathering my empty pail,
my soaking gloves,
heading for home.

–Melinda Coppola

Imagine the Harvest

Mercy

What if we had drills,
not just for disasters, fires
and hurricanes, not just
for active school shooters
and any possible terrorisms
both foreign and domestic,

what if we had rigorous
training in kindnesses:
how to recognize them incoming,
start a volley with the perpetrators.

Imagine preparations
for frequent barrages
of mutual respect,
muscle building
and visual exercises
to increase aim with
arrows of understanding,
rehearsals in how to see
oneself
in another,

and, at last,
commonwealths of decency
brigades of beneficence,
great infantries of amity,

drilling to hone skills
of making, and giving,
and keeping,
peace?

–Melinda Coppola

Perhaps his name is Three Dollar Bill

The Emissary
To the man on Pleasant Street

You pace
the same stretch
of sidewalk
every morning,

purposefully, in one direction,
then turning abruptly
to traverse the same piece
of asphalt

back to an invisible starting point,
ovalling this way
over and over,
rain or shine,
in every season.

Your arms flail
as if conducting some
mysterious orchestra,

both hands
occasionally popping
peace symbols.

How can any mere human
maintain such a pace?

Is there a secret wellspring
of energy bubbling up
from some crack
in the hard ground
you’ve claimed as your own?

Your eyes hide
behind sunglasses,
with no regard to weather,

as if you can perceive
sun where there is
none.

An unkempt jungle
of beard and mustache
obscures more of your face,

with just a long
sunburned nose
and two crescents
of tanned upper cheek
to show a weathered countenance
to an indifferent world.

And then
there are the too-long pants,
always bell bottoms,
perhaps the same pair
day after month
after year.

You seem a refugee
from Woodstock,
and I wonder
what called you
to this life
of endless pace.

Is it drugs,
or mental illness,
or the too-common
marriage of the two?

Do you know any refuge,
where and when
do you sleep,
and who once called you son?

There are days, man,
when I see those
peace symbols popping
from your expressive hands,

and I think
you could be a messenger
come to remind us—
the busy ones,
the ones who hide our crazy
behind full schedules
and rapt consumerism—

that we’re born for more,
that walk-dancing on a sidewalk
can’t mean less

than strapping ourselves into cars
to rush to sit
behind screens
so we can buy
more than we’ll ever need.

Perhaps it could
very well
mean more.

–Melinda Coppola