By April Salzano
At first, I think nothing of eating the chips that came home
from my kids’ weekend with their father. I shove my hand in
the bag as I would any bag of chips and come out with a few
that I cup in palm, transfer to mouth. Midway through crunch,
I realize, these are chips that he bought, not with what he likes
to call “his” child support money, but with his money. Maybe
his new wife bought them with her money. Maybe his new
family shared some of these chips as they watched a reality
tv show, their hands touching some of the chips I am now
eating. This image is initially disturbing, but that feeling turns
into a kind of anger that I wouldn’t call jealousy, more like
a violation of a space that is no longer mine, a place I should be
glad I escaped, still holding all my chips when I left.
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, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.
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