asalzano@hotmail.com
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
Text Slap
I am sure there is an
emoticon or emoji
to fit what is needed
when I annoy
the hell out of you
with my incessant questions,
answers to which you
have already provided,
but I forgot not
because I wasn’t listening,
but because I was—to
everything
in addition to what you
said,
laundry crying
kids on infinite spin
cycle
students barking
dog whining
all forces conspiring
against my attention
span, capability
of my memory.
We need a our own
combination of keystrokes,
delivered via cell
for the next time it
happens.
A symbolic hand to
face, a parenthetical
punishment of sorts to
shock me
back into the realm of
the writer.
Retrospective Disapproval
is as pointless as
retroactive praise. Lessons
have been learned with
or without reinforcement.
The statute of
limitations expired long ago. History’s
characters cannot
change their clothes, the color
of their eyes, or be
recast, except as memory fails.
Mine is sharp, all
unfortunate edges, a mirror
I hold that reflects no
perception but my own,
not fairest, but
historically accurate. For the past,
I may be sorry, but I
will never apologize.
The Church of Sugar
I worship bread dough
rising,
kneel before icing
slathered
on a binge, lick
cupcake
with peanut butter
center,
tongue the body of my
tiny god.
Sincerely,
April Salzano
asalzano@hotmail.com
Text Slap
I am sure there is an
emoticon or emoji
to fit what is needed
when I annoy
the hell out of you
with my incessant questions,
answers to which you
have already provided,
but I forgot not
because I wasn't listening,
