Night Upon the Prairie

by Melinda Coppola


It was night upon the prairie,
new moon sliver in the sky
cold wind pushing through,
heading East.

In the old brown house
through the night upon the prairie
leaky windows rattled
a rhythm to match my shiver.

I cocooned in scratchy blankets
next to the hollow you left
the whole night upon the prairie
in the bed we once called ours.

My only company were the mice
scrambling, nesting in the walls
behind the dirty woodstove
every night upon the prairie.

It was night upon the prairie
when I shredded my rough blankets,
punched a hole into the wall
behind the stove,

Gathered armfuls of the rags,
that last night upon the prairie,
fed them to the wounded wall
those mice called home.

It was morning on the prairie
when I grabbed my half packed bag,
closed the creaky door behind me,
bade farewell to the brown house.

I left a trail of dust
that clean morning on the prairie
when my foot pressed on the gas
and I drove East into the wind.


* * * * *

Melinda Coppola writes from a messy desk in small town Massachusetts, where her four cats often monitor her progress. She delights in mothering her complicated, enchanting daughter who defies easy description. Melinda’s work has appeared in many fine books and publications, most recently One Art, Third Wednesday, and Anti-Heroin Chic.