Photo by Eugene Golovesov
Falling
Melinda Coppola
My father tried
to teach me
how to do it right.
I think he meant
on ice,
I think he meant
while skating.
Lean your weight forward,
he’d say.
Put your hands
out in front of you
and be ready
to let your arms
break the fall.
My sister taught me
how to use a tampon,
clean a toilet.
How to feel bad about myself
for not noticing
how much they’d been fighting.
My mother never told me
about falling.
She didn’t teach me balance,
or how to stand
my ground.
She did say my belly
showing like that
between shirt and jeans
meant slut.
She taught me I was fat,
because I was slow to see it.
Fifty years later,
which means recently,
my brother called
to remind me
how to do it.
It’s winter, after all.
Ice abounds.
Forearm is stronger
than hand,
less delicate.
Don’t be afraid.
Thrust those forward,
they’ll take the impact.
You’re gonna fall,
he said.
Just remember how,
remember how
to do it right.
Melinda Coppola
My father tried
to teach me
how to do it right.
I think he meant
on ice,
I think he meant
while skating.
Lean your weight forward,
he’d say.
Put your hands
out in front of you
and be ready
to let your arms
break the fall.
My sister taught me
how to use a tampon,
clean a toilet.
How to feel bad about myself
for not noticing
how much they’d been fighting.
My mother never told me
about falling.
She didn’t teach me balance,
or how to stand
my ground.
She did say my belly
showing like that
between shirt and jeans
meant slut.
She taught me I was fat,
because I was slow to see it.
Fifty years later,
which means recently,
my brother called
to remind me
how to do it.
It’s winter, after all.
Ice abounds.
Forearm is stronger
than hand,
less delicate.
Don’t be afraid.
Thrust those forward,
they’ll take the impact.
You’re gonna fall,
he said.
Just remember how,
remember how
to do it right.