Inside Looking In
The mountains have not
mattered
since Monday. I have
been alone
in my empty house of
cards, holding
my breath, protecting
my walls.
The truth is on the
bathroom floor,
writhing in
indifference, loose hair,
speck of dust, so much
standing
water, I have to turn
my head, wade
through currentless
suds. The vanity
is made of rotted wood,
pine
that loses its knots,
knobs
that loosen at every
turn. The door
is locked from the
outside.
Our Bodies Are Baskets
carrying everything
that is
put inside, holding
tight
as membranes. We are
snakes, engulfing prey
twice
our size. Our jaws
unhinge,
we expand, sated on
meat
of miracles.
Before Dawn
My lungs are on the
floor,
a pair of kings, played
like bagpipes with
accordion precision.
The moon is in my eye,
a wafer, a penny
candy. My heart is a
piñata, its destiny
hanging in the balance.
I breathe
feathers, exhale wings
in terrible song.
Then someone decides to
run
Bio: Recently nominated for two Pushcart prizes, April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com
No comments:
Post a Comment