An Editor Gave My Poem Blue Balls
Thank you for submitting your work.
Though I am going to pass on this batch,
your poem “insert title here” came close.
Huh?
I immediately think of coming.
Then I thinking of coming close to coming,
my poor poem,
at near-orgasm, being turned away, beat
to the punch, not cock-blocked,
but given a chance, then left
hanging,
heaving on the bed, breathless, frustrated,
before taking matters into his own hands.
Belly Dancing, an Ancient Art
When I grow old I will be a hero
in a half-shirt, Shakira, twisting
and turning in tempo, hips
that don’t lie moving as if disjointed,
unhinged, a goddess. Among
the stupidest things my college students
have said to me includes: when you are ancient,
like 40, and you have a kid, it’s time to act
your age and just be a mom. Kthanksbye.
They threw Madonna in the geriatric
category too, and who is Metallica?
Nine inch nails on a chalkboard.
I do not bother chastising.
Instead, I remind them that by
their own logic, they have only
a little over twenty years of life left,
but I will belly dance
to my grave and grade book.
————
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry. Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Award and 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.