The world has frozen over. Hell,
this winter, wouldn't be warm enough. My bones
leave trails through tundric mountains. Out here
souls of strangers are huddling together for heat.
Even my thoughts are on hold, heavy glaciers,
unmoving. I am an old mare dragging seasons
behind me, full of silence, ribs protruding, waiting
to see if I make it to the mirage of greener grass.
Today I made a hawk drop her prey.
That is not a metaphor.
She was trying
to reach a height sufficient to cross
the street, roadkill gripped
in her talons when we intersected.
The carcass fell. By instinct,
I ducked behind my steering wheel.
I swear I saw her laughing
in my rearview
mirror, the way a hawk laughs,
low and intentional.
soaks our empty field with threats
of spring withheld, coats tree limbs
with drops of glass, we crawl
across parking lots and burn the last
stored, split wood. We await warmth
of sun to open early shoots of tulip
leaves, to color our view with anything
but the sluggish brown of dead things.
April Salzano is the co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press and is currently working on a memoir about raising a child with autism, as well as several collections of poetry. Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. Her chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is available from Dancing Girl Press. Her poetry collection, Future Perfect, is forthcoming from Pink. Girl. Ink. More of her work can be read at aprilsalzano.blogspot.com
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