She does the dishes facing the window.
She lives in that backyard.
She lives in that moment
where everything is still, except her hands.
She stands with one leg bent forward, bracing herself against the cabinets beneath her knees.
She would fall faster than autumn without her habitual soak in the dinner’s water.
She wipes her hands on her orange napkins with purple morning glories, and sighs from the heat.
She shakes two sugar packets between her finger and her thumb, and throws them on the table swiftly, unused but ready.
Everything in her life is unused but ready.
She is anxious and alone with her coffee.
Her banana plaid skirt blends in with the wall, and she regrets her decision.
She is always found sitting between baby blue stripes.
She is April’s eye puzzle.
Eggshell is always her best bet, she thinks.
Her pearl earrings sag heavy in her lobes like full blue moons, and her jumper is exhausted.
She is so sad, and I am sad for her.
She makes a pile of crumbs on the table, bulldozing with her forefinger.
He hands are strong and wrinkled, she has dug them in the ground before.
She is lost in another window out of the dining room, praying to lie beneath one of the cars passing by, but she won’t.
Her husband is asleep behind his newspaper, or sleeping with his news.
She hasn’t touched a man really touched a man since Puerto Rico.
Her hands could use one more hot summer.
She brushes her overgrown bangs out of her face with the back of her palm, and rests it lightly under the bottom of her chin.
She walks up the stairs passed her family portraits.
She lives alone in this house.
I walk by her from the bathroom, and she winks with her left eye, while holding her skirt up from brushing the floor with h
