Categorically Speaking

Dubbed

One name
for a collection of can’ts,
of never wills and less-thans,
a singular bucket
into which they dump
the myriad ways
she comes up short.

Autism.

The rusty scuttle
whose name expands
to encompass
the collected others—
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
Severe anxiety disorder.
Chronic polyuria.
Lordosis, Kyphosis.
Intellectual Disability.

Oh, I’ve made peace
with all the labels,
pocketed them, even,
as keys to the kingdom
of Getting Services.

It’s just behind
that big familiar bucket
the real of our story is told,

told and retold
at home, in the car,
on our daily walks,
when I sing her awake,
the telling and retelling
woven into all our routines.

Her future is unknown.
Worry for her safety
looms large,
and for that alone,
this wish to stay alive
as long as she,
well past my allotted time.

Yet
sure as sunrise,
deep as canyon,
boundless as evening sky
lives certitude—
my daughter knows

her names:
Love.
Loved.
Beloved.
She Who Hears Colors in Songs.

And her other names,
also true,
which she may or may not
recognize—

Patience Coach.
Systemizer Extraordinaire.
Incognizant Teacher
of the Core Curriculum
of the Heart.

–Melinda Coppola

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

Accepting Autism

Ten years ago, April was designated Autism Awareness month. April 2 is World Autism Awareness day. There has been a movement towards renaming both of these, replacing awareness with acceptance .

Robert Frost wrote,” Always fall in love with what you’re asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever’s going. Not against: with.”

I don’t know many people who fight against the reality of autism. On the contrary, I know dozens of folks who have grasped their circumstances with both hands and shaped them into something meaningful, useful and beautiful. Affected individuals have found ways to educate non-autistic folk and improve the lives of others on the spectrum. Parents of children with the diagnosis have created organizations to assist with creative housing solutions, adapt recreational activities, and push legislation to protect our vulnerable loved ones from abuse and neglect.

I wrote the below poem four years ago. Today seems an appropriate time to share it once again.

Autism Awareness month is April,
World Autism Awareness Day, April 2
and, in case the day lacks color,
(as if any day with Autism in it could be dull),
the mysterious Namers-of-Days-and-months
have painted it a medium sort of blue.
I wonder who decided this;
and how it was chosen,
this perfectly ordinary second day,
and weighted with a long middle
moniker, like a fish
plucked out of the ocean,
tagged and thrown back
into what used to be
a perfectly ordinary fourth month.
And why a color? Why this one?
Does Autism look like blue
to outsiders?
Pondering this, I roll up my sleeves,
prep the tub for her,
the one who turned my life on its ear,
she who makes me laugh,
she who wears me out,
she who is a master of repetition,
she who defies reduction,
who is multi-colored, many-hued.
She who is unaware of your awareness,
who, if asked, would mutter “ Not interesting”,
she who needs help with a bath
but can take a thing
and spell it backwards,
report to the air/no one in particular
how many redundant vowels it contains,
and how her lunch reminds her
of Home on the Range.
She who hears songs in color,
who does not stay in her bed all night,
who is frightened of beads with holes,
she who knows if there’s a day to be aware of
it’s the fourth Friday in February,
which is called Ate Baby Kate, and that means bad,
and therefore must be worried about
many months in advance,
she who can sing whole CDs in order,
she who tells me thirty times a day
that I’m a girl ( in case I forget)
She who needs more than I have
who gives more than I need
who has more than you think,
who is more, so much more,
than you give her credit for.
And so, dear you-who-aren’t-aware,
please allow me to set the record straight.
Autism is multi-colored,
and awareness is every single day,
and no blue second day of any fourth month
will ever matter more
than your interest, your kindness, your respect,
your willingness to help us challenge
a world that would reduce anyone
to an assumption
or a label
in one color
on one day
within one month.

–Melinda Coppola

A little more “Pub Cred”.

One of my goals as a creative person is to put more of my work out into the world. If writing and art-making gets short shrift in the bigger picture of my life as Bink’s mom and chief advocate—and it does—the amount of time I spend on submissions is barely worth a mention. All writers know, though, that rejection is the norm. Even the most accomplished and prolific artist or writer has received dozens more turndowns than acceptances. Thus, when I send one or two of my little word babies out into the big world and they are received warmly, it feels like a hug from an oft indifferent universe.

Today, I’ve had two poems published in issue six of Auroras and Blossoms Poetry Journal. I share them below, as well as a link should you want to purchase the whole issue.

Hawk, circling

She soars, sharp eyes,
purposeful behind
what looks like ease.

Below, her world
stretches magnificently
in the four directions,
all greens and grays,
mottled brown
and dull blue rivers.

Above, dark clouds,
hints of rain.

Ahead, more colors, blurring
into horizon.

Again, her eyes train
on the earth,
where she hones her vision
to capture the scurrying mouse,
the wee chipmunk.

Does she ever doubt
her wings, her talons,
her vision?

I think not,
for her glide
is at once
easy and strong,

and if she would deign
to speak to me,
she might say

You were born to this world.
Walk sure-footed on ground,
dive into the lakes
with the abandon
that comes
from knowing

if you’re here, you belong.

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?

https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/auroras-blossoms-poetry-journal-issue/9781393899068-item.html

Thanks for reading! I appreciate it more than you know.

-Melinda Coppola

Little Altars Everywhere


My home is host
to little altars everywhere

honoring lives lived,
seasons arriving and leaving,

the hundred sparks of grace
and wonder, sorrow
and understanding

that pock and foliate
hours and years squeezed
into the dance of this body,

my particular, grand,
unbearably blessed
and gratefully transient
human experience.

On good days
I go bowing through the hours
stretched wide,
humbled by everything.

There are others, though—
minutes, whole
starless nights, mute weeks—
when these dry hands go numb
holding thin skin
tight to my bones

to keep the hope
from draining out
the holes
all the leaving
has left.

–Melinda Coppola

Notes from a Parallel Universe

I’ve written a fair amount about life with my adult child. As I plod ever so slowly towards creating a book about the journey, it occurs to me that the pace at which I’m working on that is in sync with the overall pace and rhythm of our life together. Bink will turn 28 this weekend. I’m not one to fixate on the differences between her development and that of a “typical” young adult, but the anniversary of her birth seems to stir things up for me. From that churn this poem arose.

The View from Here

You say
you just caught glimpses
of your child
as he sped past toddlerhood,
towards those labels
that mean everything
and nothing: child, tween,
teen, young adult.

Glimpses, you say,
as if it all tornadoed past you
while I stood stupefied,
hands in pockets,
by the side of some dusty cow path,
a perpetual look of dull
surprise on my unremarkable face.

Truth is,
over here our lives
are nothing like that.

We have plodded along
like turtles in the too-hot sun,
she and I,

pausing every few feet
to rest, to allow her
a few attempts at integrating
the latest sensory assault,

which could have been a wind
shaking the branches too fast,
or the distant sound
of a jake brake on a downhill semi
from a highway half a mile away.

Her needs are special,
which means our shimmy
is your slow dance,
our milestones
seem like simple addition
to your kid’s calculus.

I’m used to it,
adept at appreciating
the kinds of beauty
that decorate this life
that chose me, and her.

It’s not the pace of it all
that leaves me sweaty
and gasping for breath.

It’s my head spinning
as your children date
and learn to drive,
go to college,
get married,
have babies,
buy a house,

flying so far from your nest
you can’t squint enough
to make out the tiny dot
their bodies make
as they soar onward,
commanding the skies.

–Melinda Coppola

Me and My Shadow Go to Market

It is May 2020,
still early in
The Covid Times.

We take ourselves to the market,
by which I mean
our whole selves,
me in my layers of
self-consciousness—
the run of the mill kind
that most of us don
without thought—

she baring all, as usual:
no pretense, nothing to hide.

The market rule
in the time of virus:
No touching anything, honey,
except yourself or Mom.

We’ve gotten good at this one,
practicing since mid-March,
and so we go,
in service to our shopping list,
following the one way arrows
like breadcrumbs,

and her singing beams
a Disney-flavored sunshine
up and down the aisles
even through her mask.

She pauses in front of the dairy section,
(which means I pause, too)
halts her sunbeaming mid-song,
and announces to the floor,
” Mommy it looks like I have to pee.”

No beats to skip,
for we are well prepared,
the purple handled pee jug
bagged and ready
in the backpack,

nestling up against
the toilet paper,
flanked by two packs
of antiseptic wipes,

and into the bathroom we go,
my shoulder managing doors,
finding a stall, hooking
pack to hang,

pulling out
that magnificent portable
receiver of pee
that makes all outings
seem possible,
conquerable.

We navigate this
like so many other things,
my thought out plan
for safety and practicality

backlit by the simplicity
of her needs,
which aren’t so much special
as they are honest,

the whole thing shined up
by my gratitude, in recent years,
that she can name the feelings,
usually in time to stay dry.

We are each engaged
in familiar activities:
she is peeing
and I am musing,

wondering
and marveling
at what the world could be
if we were all more like her:

free of innuendo,
honest to a fault,
unable to fathom
marching to any beat
but our own.

–Melinda Coppola

LATELY

The ground seems foreign,
new roots and stones anchored
in the middle of familiar paths,

and my feet stumble more,
much more.
Are you stumbling too?

Such heavy air,
a downward press
on the shoulders
makes it hard to look up,
check out the sky.

I can’t speak for you,
but I feel your heart
even as we give each other
wide berth, passing
in the park and on the streets.

I can see your eyes
above your mask,
watch you avert them
long before I’m near.

If I turn on the news these days
it’s to study faces,
listen hard
for all that isn’t being said.

I can avoid the headlines
but still I feel your heart,
see your eyes looking left
or looking right

even as we all dwell
in the center of things.

Can’t we stand still
and see each other eye to eye?

Can’t we soften
just a little,
abstain for an hour or a day,
make a Sabbath, a Shabbat
of not doing the things we do,

not lowering the blinds and turning away from the street where life is happening,

not doing the things that almost seem required of late, that almost seem normal,

not heaving our personal pain onto the steaming pile of angst, then grabbing handfuls of it without looking, with our noses blocked, and throwing it at each other?

As if that helps.

As if that does anything
except maybe keep us distracted
for a moment or a year,
keeps us from breathing
into our common humanity,
allowing movement inside,

letting things rise and break free,
rise and dissipate.
rise and come into the sun to be named
and nourished, or released.

–Melinda Coppola

When the Beginning is also the Ending

I haven’t done a lot with poetic forms. Something inside of me chafes at the notion of trying to fit the body of a poem, beating heart and all, into a prescribed number of lines or a particular shape or meter. I did enjoy this exploration of palindrome verse, though, also known as mirror poetry.
————————————————-

When I say I’m stuck
when I take a breath,
let it go
oh
will you tell me
now’s the time
release
all the words,
all the color,
weeping for freedom
to move forth
towards the larger world,
will you steady my shoulders
look into my eyes
like you really know me
and say stop
like you really know me
look into my eyes
will you steady my shoulders
towards the larger world,
to move forth
weeping for freedom
all the colors,
all the words,
release
now’s the time
will you tell me
oh
let it go
when I take a breath
when I say I’m stuck.

–Melinda Coppola

Medicament

Medicament

This morning’s waking,
tight and tender to the touch,
felt like neck ache,

and all along
the spine of this day
my heart climbed and slid,

ridge-riding
the grief and uncertainty
of these past months,

pushing up towards
bone-like pinnacles,
vertebraic protrusions
of more bad news—
illness and violence,
economic cancer,
people hating their neighbors—

and then
the intentional slide
over cushiony discs
hydrated with hope,

into valleys lush with
stories of great kindness,
dotted with golden gifts,
small sweet buds of peace
that can only bloom
with softened expectations.

Now at the tailbone
of a long sixteen hours,
no Downward Facing Dog
or Bridge Pose can save me
from this hunched pecking
at the keyboard,
almost desperate
to whiplash out a poem
or some semblance thereof.

How many ways
can we find
to harm each other?

and

Aren’t there an equal
number of ways
we can lift and hold,

tilt a hurting person
towards the light,
say

Look—
the way your cheek curves
towards your chin
is poetry.

And

You, over there—
talking to your cats
with your eyes alone,
see how they respond
by blinking back, slowly?

And

Old man, I’ve seen you
water your plants
with deep, unquestioned faith
that they’ll leaf and angle
towards the sun—

and isn’t that grace,

and aren’t we all,
every one of us,
a cure
for someone’s
unease?

–Melinda Coppola