on, I stand four inches taller.
Five-foot-seven in black
leather, knee high. I am spike-heeled,
armed for battle
against the mundane, mediocre, middle-aged
moms in flats and leggings. Tunic
tops shield view of asses
with the appearance of potatoes
stuffed in panties, dimples for which
cottage cheese (even large curd)
is still an insufficient metaphor. Miles
of road and treadmill in my wake,
I praise every defined muscle
two births left intact.
To Cum or Not To Cum
is not an option. On the table
is not a choice, but something
better left to chance and momentum. Hard
luck is a prophecy, self-fulfilled.
Intrusion, a welcome stranger,
master of impromptu movement.
Sudden, temporary fetish follows lack
of logic. Riding meaningless waves
of echolalic patterns.
My departure confirms your arrival.
It’s my body, but go ahead,
get off in it. You’re entitled to
nothing less. After all it’s your day
without work. And you’re horny. Never
mind that my stomach is killing me and the kids
are awake and I have a million
things to do. You wouldn’t
know what goes on between 6 and 8 a.m.
here. There is not a moment that I own.
I want to be a means to your end, really I do.
You say you will take a second
to my writing and my workout,
neither of which is an option
right now. But please,
throw a tantrum. Stomp your feet.
Whine some more. I am used to dealing
with children. They can’t delay gratification
either. My coffee is burnt, my stomach
still hurts, and I have to make a dessert
for a party I don’t want to attend.
Obligation is mymiddlefuckingname.
I’ll be okay.
Lost my faith don’t believe in miracles
please Retweet if you give a fuck
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania and is working on her
first (several) poetry collections and an autobiographical work on
raising a child with Autism. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspiration, The Rainbow Rose and other online and print journals and is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly and Bluestem.