When Your Dragonfly Grew

My friend, the artist Marina Powdermaker, would have turned 64 next week. I can’t quite believe it’s been 5 years since she left.  It is for us—those left living—to  honor our beloved dead by telling the world about them—their talents, their quirks, their dreams.

When Your Dragonfly Grew  

For Marina Powdermaker  8/27/61-6/28/20

After the first course
of radiation,
scans revealed
the cancer had wrapped
thick fibrous roots
around tender organs
in your midsection.

Chemo looming,
your grayed blond mane
was piled on your head
wild and thick,
like a crown of courage.

You talked about losing it—
the hair, which had been such a calling card
for most of your life.

Directing your still steady gaze
straight into mine,
you spoke like the teacher you were.

There is a special cap
you intoned,
that will freeze my head
so I might keep more of it.

I have this picture on my phone—
you, bedridden by then,
eyes little caves
ringed by darkness,
skin sallow,
brows gone wild.

You’d smiled for the lens that day,
knowing this would be one of the last
that could hold cheer.

The dragonfly tattoo that lived
on your left forearm
grew larger
as your flesh melted away.

I believe in miracles.
you said
and I understood
you were holding sacred space
for hope
that you might see your 59^th birthday,
possibly live beyond.

I remember
there was more fullness
in that visit
than the ones to follow.

You asked how I was,
and I deflected.
Surely anything I could say
would pale in comparison
to what you were going through.

Don’t do that,
you said
Don’t do THAT.
I want to know how you are.

You told me I was beautiful.
I corrected you.
Yes, you are.
You spoke
with authority, finality.

I gave you that,
turning my attention
to the dragonfly–
mistress of transformation
burgeoning, blossoming
on your bony arm.

–Melinda Coppola