If I were an artist, I would paint

September 79 degrees, canvas

these images: a child’s swimming pool, soft

sides, a full bladder on a bed

of dead grass, singed brown under tarp corners

placed for cover on unlevel ground.

Marigold’s last gasps of orange and yellow

before Autumn dims the sun. The meaning

of damp swim trunks hanging on deck railing

a final time. The drooping head

of the last sunflower. A stranger, burnt,

face down in shame.

A jet stream. The feathered stripe of white on blue

in cloudless expanse so peripheral it domes

into the woods at either end of horizon.

Quaking Aspens. The tall spindles of leafless

trunks reaching into afternoon, swaying

in the loss of leaves and time.



April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania and is working on her first several collections of poetry and an autobiographical novel on raising a child with Autism. 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, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, Deadsnakes, Winemop, Daily Love, WIZ, Visceral Uterus, Crisis Chronicles and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly, Decompression, Work to a Calm, Windmills and Bluestem.

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Rating: 1.8/5 (6 votes cast)
BACKYARD IN LATE SUMMER • by April Salzano, 1.8 out of 5 based on 6 ratings
Posted on February 17, 2013 in Literary, Poems
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  • Marion Clarke

    I love how the narrator has shared a snapshot from her life with the reader. This speaks to me of the loss of a loved one and/or innocence.


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