Circuitry, Between & All in Due Time by Melinda Coppola
Circuitry
If My Daughter Were Among the Uvalde Dead
I would want to squeeze my trembling body
through that tiny crack—
the one that grows slightly wider
with each passing decade—
that sliver of an opening
in the door to the other side.
I would want to get there before she does,
be the waiting ghost mother
with my arms
like wings
wide open wide
like her eyes would be
as she lands, dazed and stupefied
in the place where bodies cannot follow.
I would want
to pull the remnants
of terror and trauma
right out of her sparkling baby soul
cast it off
like everything else we leave behind
when we die.
Between
Between the desperation
for her to return
to some land
of reasonable comfort and the sad,
wiser knowing that her time
is very likely
very near
I sit curled
into a fetal position, crying
even as I split in two
and let the pragmatist
who sits inside my head,
receptionist for the
Bank of This is Life,
step ahead and pull me,
drag my wet weeping
heart-on-sleeve
leaking messy
bucket-of-love self
forward to do the day,
make the daughter’s lunch,
feed the other three felines,
empty the litter boxes,
put in a laundry,
drive and drop off
and deliver and
call and email
even as those two selves
drop back and pull forward,
inside my skin I sit curled,
fetal, hugging knees
because I can’t hug her,
my sweet
and very ill companion
with whom I drove
too fast last night
to the veterinary emergency,
trembled with fear
and gratitude
as they whisked her in
to be seen,
my precious girl
for whom I waited
in an examination room
while they probed and scanned
so late, so late
I shut the overhead fluorescents
and lay on the hard bench seat
my bulky purse
and her thick
file of records
as pillow,
until the doctor came
at last to tell me
so many things
the words got scrambled
in my duel and
dueling body
words like
very sick, dehydrated
and blockage,
distension and can’t
go home
needs to stay
IV fluids and sedation
and here I sit
ten hours later
typing this poem
and waiting, waiting
for words like update
and prognosis
and when can I see her
willing my jellied being
to rise and do more day
pick up the mother
take her to that luncheon
push my lips
into a shape
that could be smile
nod my head
put one foot
forward of the other
go about my business
as if my real purpose
wasn’t her,
wasn’t love and hold
and comfort
and pray.
All in Due Time
The words ring in my ears.
It’s an old condition
newly named;
Mockery Tinnitus.
The scrawing of a haggard crow,
rasp of last
autumn’s leaves hitching a ride
on spring winds.
Some doors will never open,
I want to scream.
Some change will never come.
It’s afternoon and I
wear my pain pulled low over my eyes
like a ten gallon hat.
Nobody notices.
“I threw ‘Circuitry’ into the dead letter office on my MAC because it felt like I was inserting myself into a circumstance I’d never experienced. I had no clue, have no idea what bereaved parents really go through, and it felt like a reader might think I’ve no right to poem about it. ‘Between’ was tossed aside because I felt that readers wouldn’t understand just how devastating it is/was to have a precious pet go through medical hell and not be able to save them. ‘All in Due Time’ felt self-serving and boring. I assume nobody would be interested in reading it.”
Melinda Coppola (she/her/hers) writes from her messy desk in a small town in Massachusetts. Her four cats often monitor her progress. She is currently seeking a publisher for her first full length book of poetry, which centers on her experience parenting a special needs child.