'#metoo' & 'Samhain': Two Poems by Melissa Tyndall
For Barbara Coombes
Long before we named monsters,
believed in them, I toiled in his garden—
turned soil, tended his thrifts, cowslips,
the burnt-tips of orchids. Inside,
he revisited images of stark naked
children. The seed of memory
blossomed back. He exposed me
to strangers, let them photograph
my bare parts before he touched me,
made me sister-mother, before
our infant son died. I can’t
remember if I called my father’s
name before I raised the shovel,
didn’t realize I swung until it rang
out against the back of his head
like a gong, a bell, like freedom—
not until he turned into the wet
thwack of the second strike, until
I rolled him in the rug, pulled
his body into the garden under
his favorite elm tree. At night,
I can almost hear him speak
from my bedroom window despite
a mouthful of dirt, the slash
of my spade across his throat.
SAMHAIN
We pull on our masks
and place lanterns
in western-facing windows,
illuminate the path
a new moon leaves dark—
her swollen orb
absent. Tonight, the world
unhinges, unearths
the fallen— shadows stretching
across graveyards.
We beckon them back to helm
family tables,
to remember the warmth of home
and hearthfire.
Melissa Tyndall holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Murray State University. Her poems have appeared in Number One, Prism international, Red Mud Review, Words + Images, Sixfold, Gamut, The Ekphrastic Review, Coffin Bell Journal and Dark Marrow. Her work is also forthcoming in Sugared Water. The writer, professor, and Supernatural fangirl lives in Nashville with her partner and her daughter, who she hopes will prefer terrors over tiaras.
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