Spoke too, Gone too
soon. Decubitus. Succubus.
Fuck you, bitch. Trapped
between two worlds, one all goddamnit &
other polite and subtle as a hemorroid.
Excuse me. The disease
of powerful seething, driving
to distraction.
Phone on hold.
Hold the phone.
Stop the fingers
on screens they aren't really
touching. A book
on Auschwitz. Life
on fire. Death at the door.
I Know Where My Hands Have Been
They find things in the dark,
proud tongues talking, taking
signs away from languages and cupboards,
cupping the moon and casting it
aside in favor of brighter light.
How bare their intention,
how wrinkled their skin.
Let Every Sound Be
anything but familiar, all excuses,
original as origami
animals and balloon breasts stuffed
high in shirts that are too
small. Let anyone who can,
do, and those who can't, crawl
on fours across floors
made of water.
Let the sun go out.
Keep the moon on hold.
Dictate the way the cards will
fall, and sweep them under hand-
loomed rugs and quilts of clay.
April Salzano is the co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press and is currently working on a memoir about raising a child with autism, as well as several collections of poetry. Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. Her chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is available from Dancing Girl Press. Her poetry collection, Future Perfect, is forthcoming from Pink. Girl. Ink. More of her work can be read at aprilsalzano.blogspot.com
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