Integration

It has been almost a month since my mother passed. It wasn’t unexpected. She was old and ill and tired. She wanted to go, was impatient with the way those final months seemed to drag and throw more miseries her way. I was able to mark 60 of my birthdays with her still in the flesh. How many get to say that about a parent?

And yet. My interior terrain is changing. Time has sped up and slowed down, sometimes within the same hour. I can feel my heart (which is the true mind) vibrating and stretching, opening the ears that reside there. My mother comes through as soft pressure, insistent push. She is a wind. Her message is tacit like her love always was and is and will be.

Don’t defer. You were never meant to be anyone but who you are.

I wrote the following poem a few weeks before she died.

EBBING

I find myself
taking dawn personally,
the rising light an affront
to my evolving grief.

A woman could poem or go stone
silent, knowing it’s the same experience.

My relationship to the moon has changed
since my mother lay dying,
her waning
a hard crust undigested,
unmoving
inside my otherwise soft belly.

The question I cannot voice
that travels with me through
this fog-graced landscape
of mother dying, dying,

is the round unabsorbed scone
of a query–
why is my mother dying, dying,
so much more intense
than father dying, dying, dead?

Dead twenty years on, he is,
and it’s not like I don’t miss him,
and she has been inserting him
Into her sentences, her fragments
of speech
as if he were welcome, as if he
were not ex-husband
for all those decades.

It wouldn’t be so bad to have him here
she said, months ago,
I’d be a lot nicer to him.

–Melinda Coppola

Headway Happening Here

Smile

Last time it was Tuesday,
six months and four days ago.
The incredible Dr. S
managed a first—
pedaling the chair back just a bit,
your face more accessible,
sunglasses shielding your eyes
from too-bright light.

He touched twenty dulled pearls
with his counter,
probing slyly, quickly,
distracting with wide smiles,
silly faces, a joke
that floated far above
your comprehension.

Afterwards, the celebration—
high fives and calm way-to-gos,
Let’s do twenty two next time.
My swells of gratitude
at the way they keep voices low,
abstain from the balloon machine
in your presence,
mark progress in teeth “counted”,
remembering how much
does not apply here, with you.

The next date carves itself
into your mind’s firm clay
soon as your tuned ears hear
Yes, that Wednesday works,
11 am, only Dr. S, please—
and we were off,
out to lunch as promised,
basil eggplant and rice with soy sauce,
Mommy I have your lemon please?

Last eve he asked how it went,
this man who is more father
than your own ever was,

and my mind goes to
all those years
of terror and call-aheads—
Remember to have extra staff available,
three is best.
I’ll bring my own bowl
because she always vomits,
and please,
no whirring machines, lights low,
don’t even try to put metal in her mouth—

and then I’m back here
with him, with you,
and we see something like
(could it be?)
pride
lighting your round face
as you crow
I did so well
at the tooth doctor.

–Melinda Coppola

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.

Look up! The world is out there.

Reckoning

Inside,
just shy of sunrise,
all over the land
people awakened,
reached for their small screens,
hungry for the tiny words and pictures,
memes and videos designed
to amuse, entrance,
distract from stress
and angst of bad news
streaming 24/7.

The people found ways to laugh,
or groan, and see themselves
in the scowls and smiles
highlighted in the glowing rectangles
carried lovingly in their hands
on the way to coffee, couch,
another screen or two
or three.

Outside
the skies
performed their daily
variety show,
clouds merging and shifting,
watercolor hues melting into each other.
and great glories of birds
synced their choruses
in time with ascending light.

Stories floated on the early breezes,
timeless wisdoms woven into the mosaics
of bark and leaf and urgent bud,
fed by roots
deeper and broader
than any iteration
of wide screen
mounted
over any fireplace
in any dwelling.

Grass held dew
like an offering.
Silence hovered uncertainly
between chirp and trill,
wind and caw,
waiting to see
who would welcome
the peace, calm and beauty
surrounding them.

Inside,
bonded pairs would grunt in passing—
partners, parents,
children, roomies—
conversations eclipsed by texts
as if seeing and speaking
to one another
were relics
that everyone knew
just stole energy
from the flashier screens
telling them how to think and feel,
act and buy.

Outside and unattended—
solace of cool air,
magic lavender light,
sweet-smelling rains,

the nourishing feel
of earth under bare feet,
dirt beneath fingernails,
crunch of old pine needles
under kneeling knees
in the forest—

a glorious bounty
always free and waiting
beyond our screens.

–Melinda Coppola

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