Shoveling the Trampoline
Who does this? is my first thought.
My second, how cold IS it out here?
I am rescuing my son’s summer
pastime and therapy tool—
proprioceptive or vestibular sensory
input? I can never remember which—
from the weight of three day’s snow.
The center is sagging, stretching
and will give out
if I do not. I am not
strong enough to lift
of the protective enclosure.
Each scoop must be shoved through the entrance,
an unzipped hole more narrow than my blade.
Soon, I am not thinking at all,
one with the shovel, heaving
each clump into a growing pile below,
careful not to scrape bottom
and tear fragile, frozen nylon.
April Salzano teaches
writing in Pennsylvania and is working on her first
(several) poetry collections and an autobiographical work on raising a child
with Autsim. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection,
Convergence, Ascent Aspiration, Deadsnakes, The
Rose and other
and print journals and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly