8/18/12

First Anniversary
By April Salzano


You still make me come
to my senses, when I am running
out of options, solutions, patience.
You bring me home
in a new car when mine is no longer safe.
You speak softly
when my son redecorates the walls
with thick black scribble art.
You are not scared
of my anger when nothing goes right.
You pull me out
when I am buried under freshman comp papers.
You make me pause
long enough to stop feeling
guilty for neglecting the laundry,
or missing a soccer game.
You have seen every goal
for three years.
You carry my son
upstairs after he’s fallen asleep in your arms.
You work until you are too tired
to stand up on Friday, and still
you build me
a deck on Saturday. Your modesty turns me
on more than your toolbelt and work gloves.
You teach me survival
of the fittest, why it’s ok to let
baby raccoons cry for their lost mothers;
the young hawk needs food too.
You tell me
the names of flowers and birds
and tirelessly explain
the difference between annuals and perennials
over and over again.
You mean exactly what you say,
no subtext-searches necessary, simple
language that never lies or implies a hidden agenda.

Long before the diamonds, I knew your intentions:
when we shot your ex
wife’s lamp to bits, the only thing she left,
when you built my kids
a jungle gym in your back yard,
when your vulgar coworkers sent pictures
of perfect, round porn star asses and you
told me that mine looks better,
when you said I don’t need
anything else. And you meant it.


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April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, and is forthcoming in Inclement and Poetry Quarterly. She is working on her first collection of poetry.