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
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,
kids on infinite spin cycle
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.
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.