I used to fit in your pocket. Now thirty years have passed. My, how you’ve grown, people say depending on what pill I chose to swallow. One makes me strong as rage, full, decked out in my plumped skin, invisible veins. The other makes me shrivel, shrink, a deflated bag of vascular lack of volume. Thin skin, baggy jeans & nothing to show for the work I’ve put in day in, out. The press, the pull. I want to dare you to defy me again, but too much time has passed. Our life pumped to a close. The best of you died, overdosed on everything I forbade myself. You ingested the last morsel of a marriage made to withstand starvation, and still grinning, regurgitated it with your next meal.
April Salzano‘s poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Award and her poetry and prose have appeared in over a hundred online and print journals. Her chapbook, Turn Left Before Morning, was a winner of the Rattle Chapbook prize. She has published two other chapbooks with Dancing Girl Press. She lives and writes in rural Pennsylvania.
Photo © Darina Belonogova. All rights reserved. 
