Touch me only when I cannot
see it coming. The darkness
transforms you, stranger. Perfect.
In daylight, blindfold me. I cannot see
sun variegated through window prism.
Ride me backward in time
before fire illuminated the faces of dawn.
Groping for insight, imagination,
pretending away flaws. Yours. Mine.
I confess to not having a favorite souvenir among the few that I have actually saved, but when I hear the term, I always think of the line my brother said when he was about three years old and found picking a scab: "It's a scab, it's a scar, it's a souvenir."
Recently nominated for two Pushcart awards, 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 has recently finished two collections of poetry. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com).