Everyone But You
was in that room, in dream
or in form, counting
blessings like prayers. The ghost
of a son, shadow of a childhood
spent flapping and blocking sounds,
each one the new worst offender.
I waited a lifetime for one
acknowledgement of fault. None
was made or implied, though all eyes spoke
what you could not find strength to say.
You Took Me Years
to undo. I never thought you would
be something I could say
I survived. In truth,
I miss loving you less
than I miss loving who I was when we were
young, empty, full
of nothing but ideas
about who we would become.
That was certainty, those clear
days without nostalgia, before
we had anything to look back on,
before you ate our children whole,
licked your fingers.
Before you emptied
the picnic blanket
of crumbs, killed all the ants,
and blocked out what was
left of the sun.
What Happens When We
outgrow our old metaphors,
when they deconstruct,
return to original meanings
like they are naked,
standing, waiting to be clothed
by someone else?
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 been twice nominated for a Pushcart Award and has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. Her first chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is available from Dancing Girl Press. The author serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.