Poetry by Melinda Coppola

                    ​mrhayata CC



Not Now

I dwell in impossibility. 
Not the good kind, the stuff that grabs
you by the hand and drags you 
laughing, and singing, 
higher and further until
you drink and sweat and 
piss optimism, until
your bed is rose petals 
and you wake each dawn to 
certainty that this is indeed 
your time, that you were born
to the right tribe and 
anointed to be 
Just.  Who.   You are.

No, I hark from the valley
despite my inclinations 
to mountain,
to thin air, 
to the climb. 
and I used to! Climb,
traverse, bear great loads
upon my Balkan back 
and skip down smiling
well before dark and ready
for more. I mean,
I think I did.

Truth tells. 
Decades of it - doubt, 
depression, fear,
have worn my soles smooth,
so treadless that traction 
became something they surely lied about,
something that wasn’t for women like me, 
who lift one foot towards the path
only to slip down, landing in the armpit
or the elbow
of the valley
where I dwell 
becoming one with the lame,
the still-born,
the ones whose time
is Not Now.





Available

I used to be eight-limbed
like the sad
blue woman 
on the inaugural cover
of MS magazine.

So many hands 
to hold
everyone else’s needs.

When I filled them all,
I’d juggle,
keeping a hand free
in case you, 
or a neighbor,
claimed
a need.

The lower left
was the first to go.

It was an accident, really.
So many arms
to keep track of,
keep clean
and ready.

I slammed the car door
before the baby could slip
from the back seat
and fall out.

One gone, severed at the bicep.

I think it rolled
down the driveway,
slid into the sewer drain

but, 

well,
you know,
I had no time to look,
being universally needed and all.

The second and third,
both on the right as I recall,
fell into the pot
of boiling pasta water
when I turned to catch 
the pet hamster
who’d broken free
of her cage.

I remember thinking,
I think I thought,
how nice it might be
to run away like that.

If I bled at all
I didn’t notice,
because, 
well, 
all that laundry 
piling high.

The fourth arm
was, if I trust my memory,
a casualty of 
that utility closet.

I reached in for a broom,
caught the vacuum cleaner cord,
turned too fast
when the doorbell rang.
I think that one 
must have shriveled up 
and become more dust
flying through the rooms
to spray and wipe away
as I never did get to look. 

Such a deep closet,
and so many needs to tend.

Truth to tell,
I lopped off the fifth
while testing my splendid
new kitchen knife,
every women’s dream
of a birthday gift,

plopped that arm
up onto the formica counter
and just touched 
the shiny blade
to the forearm.

It gave way so easily
under the cutting edge
and I kind of liked
the way the sun
caught the white bone
against the pink muscle.

Arm six
disappeared one night
while I was sleeping. 

I mean,
something must have happened
but I was so very tired
from all that need.

Two arms left.

Enough to wrap
‘round my assorted beloveds,
and, after a good pause,

one hand to lift the kettle,
another to pour the tea.

​

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Melinda Coppola has been writing in some form for nearly five decades.  Her work has been published in several magazines, books, and periodicals including I Come from the World, Harpur Palate, Kaleidoscope, The Autism Perspective, Spirit First, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Welcome Home, and Celebrations. An artist, Yoga teacher and mom to an amazing daughter with special needs, she enjoys infusing her work of heart with her voice as a poet.

Melinda nourishes her creative spirit with singing, early morning walks, collecting and making art with beach stones, cooking, spending quiet time with her husband and daughter, and communing with her cats.