My skin is skin tight.
My birthday suit suits me like a blue moon.
I wear my spare tire as default attire,
realize there are more trees in the forest
than I can shake a stick at. They intersect
the light at painful intervals. I carry
my cross to the crossing, burdens
drag me to my knees where I do not pray,
but swim through yesterday’s memories
like mud. Opaque quicksand pulls
the full weight of me in undertow’s
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 Rainbow Rose and other and print journals and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly and Bluestem.