(she spends) April’s Tuesdays

Massaging quotidian
heartaches and
pouring
poison
down the kitchen sink,
clipping coupons from Nike’s wings
while lip-synching to gypsy notes
caught on the tails
of fast-moving clouds and
sipping salted spring
sunshine
left behind in
other languages.
Drawing flowers
from rusted faucet drips
on smudged
granite dreams,
breathing deep
of coffee steam
and bleach while
ironing out
the imperfections
of pore and
past. Studying up
on forgetting.
Practicing
for her
prime time
debut. Playing
barefoot and
dancing naked
and whispering
loudly the
secrets
no one wants
to hear and maybe
even
writing a
poem.