Haiku by April Salzano

Bright bulb swinging on
bare, black wire.  Questioning.
Interrogation.


Messing up my own
mistake counting syllables,
writing haiku wrong.


Knick knack paddy whack.
Dog, bone, sudden elation.
Then she goes to sleep.



April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons.  Most recently, she was nominated for two Pushcart prizes and finished her first collection of poetry.  She is working on a memoir on raising a child with autism.  Her work 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.