June 2023
Beth Copeland
poetreeline@gmail.com
Bio Note: I live in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where I wake every morning to a beautiful view of The Peak, the highest summit in Ashe County, North Carolina. The Peak has become my muse—sometimes personified, sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes a reflection of myself, and always a source of inspiration and strength. I've published three full-length poetry books, and my chapbook Selfie with Cherry was released last month by Glass Lyre Press. I own and operate Tiny Cabin, Big Ideas™, a small cabin I rent to poets and writers who need a quiet place to work.

Obsession

A string of obsidian beads
counted one by one. I speak your name
as an incantation, replaying scenes—that night 
at the Rolling Stones concert in the rain, soaked 
to the bone and happy. What happened? 
When did it change? Obsession’s the corkscrew 
to the heart in Bob Dylan’s song. A poison. 
A perfume. One, two, three. Obsession, 
remembering moments I can’t change. 
A wine glass shattering on the kitchen tile. 
Falling down drunk on the firewood, I lie
on my back in the snow, wanting to die.

If I left an angel behind, it was without wings
spread, writhing, wrestling with demons.
Months later, you asked if you were the dark 
angel in the song I posted on Facebook. No,
you were the man who yanked me to my feet, 
leaving fingermark bruises on arms you said 
were so spindly you could snap them like twigs. 
Who are you? you shouted, so angry spit sprayed
onto my face. Who are you? I’m the raven 
at the window in Love Minus Zero/No Limit. 
The wound compressed into coal.
The black diamond on another woman’s hand.

Familiar

Grief is a big black dog that leaps on you when you don't see it coming. You think it's outside, but here it is, in the house with you, a stray that keeps coming back in different forms. It's the death of someone you love, the end of a marriage, the loss of a career, an opportunity that will never return. It's an addiction you've had your whole life but always denied. A betrayal of trust, a ruptured rapture, a wound that never heals. You offer the dog water and food. It's always here, why not feed it? You pet its silky head and gaze into its dark eyes. It becomes your best friend, your companion for life.

Don't Think it Couldn't Happen to You

You could end up in a motel with a neon NO 
VACANCY sign in the window or in a cheap  
studio apartment sleeping on a blow-up bed. 

Don’t think of it as failure. Instead, 
think of it as rebirth like a phoenix rises
from flames or a snake leaves its skin behind. 

Maybe your flesh is too tight now that you’ve grown 
or maybe you needed to burn down to nothing 
but feathers and bones before you could fly.
©2023 Beth Copeland
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