It always catches me a bit off guard
when she does it, despite the time of the month,
our climate. I am waiting for something else,
expecting a better ending to my morning
when I walk from house to garage and get slapped
with a gust of Pennsylvania wind.
GeorgiaHers is a hot-whore sun that burns fast,
a high humidity that suffocates thoughts,
stifles breath, thickens blood. Slow flow
is a plodding draft horse trying to reach
trough gone dry. Heavy
head fails at floating, weighted
by pollen thick enough to see, a coating
of tennis-ball yellow veiling
surroundings, dense with drawl.
Dear people who live
in the house near my nest, today I am going
to commit squirrel suicide. Know that
it was nothing you did. Next chance
I have when the man is driving (because
the woman will risk her life not to hit me),
I am going to run headlong into your tire,
make it to the other side
of the car, run 5 feet while dead,
dive for a tree on pure instinct,
and collapse in a tail twitching tragedy.
There will be no other explanation
for what did not appear to be an accident.
It is simply too cold and I am too tired
of attempting to gather my nuts.
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. Most recently, she was nominated for two Pushcart prizes and finished her first collection of poetry. She is working on a memoir on raising a child with autism. 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. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.