By April Salzano
From Fiction This Memory
I woke in your arms, perfect
morning to sleep late, the sun
slipping through the blinds, our 2.5
children still asleep, each tucked in a 4
poster bed, covered in a Pottery Barn quilt,
their Ikea bookshelves alpha by author,
their toys neatly placed in labeled baskets.
It must have been Saturday because
you were not at your office job, the one
with the 9-5 schedule and opportunity
for advancement. The maid had baked
cinnamon rolls from scratch.
I woke alone, flawed
day to sleep in because the sun
hadn’t shown in weeks, blinds closed
to preserve every fragment of heat salvageable.
Our 2 children had been awake for an hour
and had already destroyed their room, tore
all the books off the shelves. The toys never
had a place to begin with. You were not
at your job, office or otherwise, because
you didn’t have one, had been fired for stealing
pain medications from the patients. In fact,
you didn’t even live with us anymore. You had
an affair and I threw you out, gaining custody
of everything without even asking.
On the English Moor
In my front yard in Pennsylvania,
mist of fog does not hang, it lays,
not heavy as it appears, not thick,
but a thin whisper, hinting
at what hides behind lace curtain.
I could part it with my hands,
travel into the blue. Moon,
low, shines a halo around herself,
a spotlight that does not break
through layers of precipitous smoke,
a special effect of morning,
the coming of May.
The Road to Stoned Road
begins with a lottery,
a number drawn, short stick’s end
given like a public inheritance.
Appetite for the bizarre assuaged.
Guilty dirt manicures the whitest nails.
Victim is sited in for the prize.
With slingshot precision, road ends
with a stone to the head.