Thursday, May 21, 2015

Homemade Whipped Cream


did not get made tonight for my mini lava

cakes, paleo-diet-friendly treats for PMS,

because the holder for the nitrous oxide

bullet was missing from the box. You are

outside building a chicken coup

so that I can have hormone-free eggs

for this new menu that is annoying

everyone in a house full of carb lovers.



Things that do not go unnoticed:

how you give me everything I mention

wanting, construct from wood

first one, then another deck to make

my swimming pool something more

of an oasis, to make a home

for foul to roost and produce perfect

eggs. I am ovulating twice a month,

shedding my unfertilized yolk, bleeding

too little to ease the twisting pain.



My sons are growing like the clover

that has taken over the bed

of lilies, their orange strangling

on too little sun, too much rain.

Our gladioli rotted in the ground, never stood

a chance of reaching vertical, purple

blooms that stretched skyward last year,

a distance that seemed so short,

so perfectly possible then.

The Road to Wraparound Road

is a street cornered by twenty-something’s
caught in the crosswalk of adult and childhood,

an expectant, entitled, self-centered populous

that does not know the difference between

questions and their answers, cannot recognize

the forest for the fallen trees. Big pictures

elude them as they dance from one diagnosis

to the next. Collectively, our children are called

clients, cases, cause for complaint.

We pass the most sacred of gifts

to hands that know nothing of loss.


We Meet Again in the Middle of the Night


Two strangers who have forgotten

what skin feels like on skin in the dead

of winter, warmth to share, steal, forgotten

the way two people can fit together, fruit

can taste on hungry tongues. I have

waited the length of four loves and twice

as many bodies to find you. Here you are

mine to discover tonight, forget tomorrow.

April Salzano