Squirrel Dick
April Salzano
Tiny. Pink. Barely there, relatively
speaking. More of a pink teardrop
than a penis. But he had it
and he was flaunting it. Flashing
me to get nuts. I’ve always been
a sucker for an erection,
so I sprinkled some of my granola
on the deck. Soon he had competition,
five maybe ten squirrels—all male
were chasing each other away
from my booty, racing back
to laugh in my face.
speaking. More of a pink teardrop
than a penis. But he had it
and he was flaunting it. Flashing
me to get nuts. I’ve always been
a sucker for an erection,
so I sprinkled some of my granola
on the deck. Soon he had competition,
five maybe ten squirrels—all male
were chasing each other away
from my booty, racing back
to laugh in my face.
About the author
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She recently finished her first collection of poetry, for which she is seeking a publisher and is working on a memoir on raising a child with autism. Her work has appeared in journals such as Poetry Salzburg, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Montucky Review, Visceral Uterus, and Salome and is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow, and Rattle. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.