One Poem from April Salzano
She is at the top
of the stairs, two children
tucked snug in her bed. There is no room
left for her. Laughter and joy, quiet
until morning. She is tired, but cannot sleep.
Post surgery pain is worse the second day.
She would like to call
down to him, can you bring me something?
but doesn’t want to wake the kids.
They both look so peaceful, so necessary,
so real. So hers.
He is at the bottom
of the stairs, music playing
in his makeshift bedroom, wide
awake. He has taken the rest
of her pain pills, and talks on
the phone to a friend in Ireland. He has
forgotten why he called,
but they will find something
to chat too loudly about, his writing,
his job, his next visit to England. Him.
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, and is forthcoming in Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, and Inclement. She is working on her first collection of poetry and an autobiographical novel on raising a child with Autism.