five poems
by rhea melina
Ballard Coyote
In this neighborhood, I have more
in common with the coyotes
than I do the homeowners
Tesla creeps up in its force-field
of ambient alto Ommmmmmmmmm
as it approaches my highly sensitive ears
I hear Don’t let go / You got the music in you
But do you?
Don’t let go / You only get what you give
And when did you last choose to give?
and did they really need what you gave?
and I’m not asking for a handout
but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve one
So whatchu’ got? Whatchu’ givin?
I am a shameless scavenger
and like the coyotes, I am going nowhere
I adjust my hours to work around your scraps
but you can’t starve me, no, cause your waste is too sloppy
You don’t notice what trail you leave
‘cause you’re moving so fast
Think you’re doing the planet good, driving electric
meanwhile The Motherland bleeds
and my rights are rotting at the landfill
But you can’t get between me
and my connection to this earth
Your condos rise and fall
and I’ll file my claws on the pavement
sow dandelion seeds into the cracks with my tongue
and I am not the only one (We out here)
When you aren’t looking, we carry
the mulch back to your gutters with our teeth
fake victim for your charity
wait for you to realize—
You’re the minority.
Progress
1. It started when
they sat us little girls at the kids table
so after we ate we could color with crayons
and stay out of momma’s hair
while she started clanging those dishes
which only barely muffled the sounds
of men drinking and talking shit
of little boys chasing and pushing outside
Their bodies: unpoliced
Our whole beings: composed
We practiced coloring red flags green
We role-played tiny dramas involving
miscommunications and needs unmet
We pretended dogs were babies
and baby dolls were husbands
We borrowed lipstick from purses
and smeared it on our cheeks
We pretended to argue about money
and jealousy of the pretty neighbor
And we had a good time
until our nipples showed through our shirts
and the uncles watched too long
when we swept the porch
So we started hiding ourselves
talking and laughing less
We began walking quietly
and shrinking to fit in rooms
Our training bras helped
us prepare for the day
when suddenly what mattered
was not our age, but how fast we
could turn and dart when cornered
in the kitchen
2. Must I inform you of our staggered progress?
How vast this conditioning is? How our footing has never held?
Yet our hearts flutter and gasp to the wingbeats of birds and we
stay curious
Now we spot the predators
from half a block away
We don’t make eye contact
or we take a side street
Sometimes we pretend to be on the phone
3. It ends when
we cut the cord as best we can
Meaning, we saw at it with dull steak knives
the ones we use mostly on apples these days
I cut the cosmic crisp in half and admire
the two halves severed like a perfect broken heart
I go get my girlfriends
We pick mushrooms in the woods
P(l)easantry
Taking the L is optional
in a labyrinth designed to lose
you within its walls
as you are property of this kingdom
or that’s what the royals would think
if they thought about you at all
It gets sticky between the brick and mortar
We stay here and don’t know if we’re hiding
on purpose or if we are just left behind
Flowers don’t have to be expensive
They can be stolen like kisses you think
you gave but someone says you stole
And it’s like that how easily we get gaslighted
into seeing ourselves as monsters
when our practices are kindly
We are givers
whose hands are empty
While you are trying desperately
remember the things
can’t and won’t
love you no matter
if you do them,
how often you do them
nor how well you do them
But we people watch
for signs of humanity in you
and in the things you do
We listen to you
and your things
and in them hear your soul
We taste them and know you
are delicious heaven on earth
in the form of a creator
a doer a mover a shaker
I see you and all
you do
I do
And please know I want more than anything
for you too to rest in the sacred dark
and know what makes you whole
is within me and you
equally
I did not build this house
This spider trap was not my plan.
I did not design this steep, slick bathtub
nor fail to seal the doors properly.
Yet here I am. Living.
I scrape out my bank account every month
to pay for this spider trap.
And I want to believe the spiders are my friends.
But twice a week I am carrying their bodies out
of the white tub, some dead, some wounded, some alive and fighting.
I do not seek forgiveness from them.
Forgiveness is a word and concept I reject. I am not religious.
I am driven by lust and stories. A fever in my bones.
Forgiveness is irrelevant. I reseal the door.
I sweep more often.
The trap still catches the spiders. Still they torture me in dreams.
Somehow I’ve come to believe that if I never interfere with them at all
that they won’t haunt me. Somehow I cannot believe that dreams are just dreams.
I don’t think humans often communicate through dreams.
I think spiders often do.
My excuses mean nothing to them.
It’s a matter of impact over intention.
Perhaps it is not I who traps them
so much as I am in their web always.
I can’t shake the feeling that I belong here
less. Less than spiders. Less than anyone.
Photo of Rhea Melina
BIO: Rhea Melina (she/her) is a multi-ethnic poet, birth-worker, parent, herbalist, educator, and hopeful romantic. Her chapbooks include a place to put things (Bottlecap Press, 2023), Not My Wasteland (Bone Machine, 2024), and Ballard Coyote (Scumbag Press, forthcoming, 2025). Her poems have been published by Elizabeth Ellen’s Hobart, Gnashing Teeth, Hare’s Paw Journal, Fiilthy Glo, Text Power Telling, and Papers Pub, among others, and her poem "Faith," calling for a free Palestine, was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She believes that all illegal occupations and wars should cease and refuses to settle for less. found confetti is her first full-length collection and is available now from Carbonation Press and www.antiquatedfuture.com.