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.
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