Wonderland

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.

Appears In

Cagibi Issue 29