Tag Archives: April Salzano

Cherry Tomatoes by April Salzano

Cherry Tomatoes

Cherry Tomatoes

hang in clusters on delicate vines. The plants
are caged, potted in the driveway. All summer
they have drowned in rain and hose water until flowers
became hard green cysts that grew, ripened and split
wide open. I salvage what I can into folded shirt-basket
though I know no one will eat them. Most have fallen
onto rocks below, dots of bloody pulp punctuate stone.
Wasted.

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Photo by Nate Dworsky.

Salzano’s bio can be found here. For more of her poetry at WIZ, go here.

Root Ball by April Salzano

Weeping Cherry

Who gives away their weeping
cherry tree, my husband wants to know. Mature,
in bloom. He says it deserves
a fighting chance. He will prepare
the ground, dig the hole by hand,
home burial or new beginning, we won’t
know for months. Once
the blossoms fall to the ground, pink
petals could mean something
other than what they seem,
if we want to search for metaphor.
The baby robin in a box yesterday
was pointless, he says. Cycle of life
stuff. Evolution. Food chain. Hawk
treat. They will give it
a nice size root ball, the orphaners.
It’s not like a breathing thing.
It won’t even know it has been taken
from the ground, not like a flower
in a glass of water, naked stem dangling,
suspended in prisms, shriveling, severed
from nutrient supply. The mother
robin is searching for her baby
that was taken home with the babysitter.
She comes with worms,
chewed and ready to regurgitate
into an open beak that is not there.

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Photo by Nate Dworsky.

For more by April Salzano at WIZ, go here. For a recent bio, go here.

Western PA by April Salzano

I80

I love the state I’m in,
its mountains and cattle grazing
under billboards beside highways,
silos standing phallic in foliage, farmland
and stretches of nothing along ribbons
of winding roads. I count phone poles
and fields as landmarks, see the ghosts of steel
and loss of populous to warmer weather,
cattailed lakes and plenty of pine, travel
narrow bridges, salt-pocked streets in
my dogwood, draft horse of a home.

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Salzano HeadshotRecently nominated for two Pushcart prizes, April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow, and Rattle. Salzano also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Photo, “I80,” by Nate Dworsky.

Dandelions Deserve Better by April Salzano

Field_of_dandelions_(5659006546)

Dandelions Deserve Better

than the title weeds. Christened

with chemicals, spores fly

on mouths of wishes, migrating

over fields to land

in full yellow bloom, until someone

has a baby and its head pops off.

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April Salzano has published with WIZ before, thus far about Nature’s underdogs. For a bio, look here.

Photo by Rene Mensen (Alias 0591) via Wikimedia Commons.

How to Train Your Squirrel by April Salzano

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How to Train Your Squirrel

to eat from a bowl is not an easy task.

You should choose a color other

than blaze orange, a material besides

plastic. Cajun almonds and salted sesame sticks

placed near the patio door seem to cause

aggression toward what used to be

his playmates in the yard. He chases away

all critters except the Nut Hatch who is able

to fly stealth operations and grab peanuts

without landing completely. Do not wait

until the blinking creature is scratching

at the glass to offer a treat. This reinforces

demanding behavior and does not promote

sharing with friends. Ignore the urge to touch

his patchy grey coat or to open the door

wide enough to permit his entrance.

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Find recent work and a bio of Salzano here. Additional poems on WIZ are available here.

 

Photo by A.J. Huffman. Used with permission.

A Dozing Squirrel by April Salzano

squirrel2

A Dozing Squirrel

full of almonds and sesame sticks, warms

his belly on wood of deck. Spread

like a loaf of homemade bread, his eyes

become commas even as his chest expands,

contracts like a blood pressure pump.

Front paws hang over edge as if more cat

than woodland wanderer, tail curled over his back,

temporarily not twitching in anxiety. I stand

at the window, wait to make sure no injury

is preventing his chaotic, convulsive foraging.

I turn away, distracted. When I return,

seconds later, he is gone.

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photo3 April Salzano has previously published on small creatures on WIZ. Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She recently finished her first collection of poetry, for which she is seeking a publisher. Her work has appeared in journals such as Poetry Salzburg, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, Convergence, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Montucky Review, Visceral Uterus and Salome, Poetry Quarterly, and is forthcoming in Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. She also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.

 

Photo by the author.