Mel Edden

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The Poet Imagines Her Retirement on Martha’s Vineyard

After Shirley J. Brewer’s “Making Change”

I buy a cherry red biplane
on a whim
while on the island
for a poetry conference.
A splendid specimen —
gold shimmering propellers
coiffing a glossy, black nose.
To no one in particular, I announce
I have decided to stay!
I take lessons at the airfield,
pay for them in poems.
There is space for two passengers,
so I take strangers for rides.
Dogs with long ears can ride for free.
With kids I perform loop-de-loops
losing hats to beaches below
(where hermit crabs find them
and claim them as homes).
We fly low and graze the forests.
Will any of these trees become
paper for poems?
I formulate a plan to save
the trees and the poetry —
I order aerial banners and fill them
with stanzas worthy of the sky.
All week across the boundless blue
I traverse with verses
in my cherry red biplane.
I spread the word!

We Make Pancakes on Sundays

I flip only when the underneath
rivals angelic gold, kitchen air
kissed by softly melted butter.

My son comes to help, eager to
splat batter in the pan, impatient
to slide black plastic under cake.

But too soon! The perfect circles
smudge. Frustrated eyes fill —
he cannot produce the perfect flip.

Yet, on Saturdays at the pool
he’s half dolphin, half acrobat,
flipping faultlessly in water.

When I swim, I never tumble, instead
I fumble at the end of each lap, O how
I covet his flawless streamline circles!

By the stove I hold him, wipe his tears
and console him: Have you noticed? I say,
We’re jealous of each other’s flipping

— perhaps we can teach each other?

I Had a Vision for My Vision

I had plenty of twenty-twenty
until I didn’t.
It is my forty-fifth year
when I first see signs
of my light-force fading.
I am at the grocery store
adjusting a jar of sun-dried tomatoes
backwards and forwards
(like you see old folks do).
The eye institute assigns me
a doctor so radiant and young
I can never imagine
his Ken-doll hair going gray
or his Jolly Rancher eyes
dulled by cataracts.
He explains presbyopia
so matter-of-factly,
like he is adding a jar
of sun-dried tomatoes to my grocery list:
  • You have a refractive error.
  • You need glasses.
  • Your vision will deteriorate further.
He shows me what things will look like
in ten years time
— like someone smudged the world.
I will never forget the click
of those thick glass discs
as he slots them
into his phoroptor.
Is it better with number one? Or number two?
I cry in the car in the parking lot,
my only comfort the refracted light
of the dazzling afternoon sun.

Mel Edden is British poet who lives in Maryland. Her recent work has been published in Welter, Fotospecchio and Washington Writers’ Publishing House Writes. She is host of the Manor Mill poetry open mic series in Monkton, MD, an editor of the anthology Poets of Manor Mill (Salt Water Media, 2024) and a recipient of a Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing fellowship. In her younger years, Mel wanted to be a Formula One racing driver, but she now gets her kicks from writing poems. Find her on Instagram: @meledden

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