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
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