April's Crappy Meditation

Her Tonsils are meteors in her throat
Floating alongside one another,
pink and inflamed, infamous,
slaves to enexorable gravity, like
Sioux City and Sioux Falls are cities,
slaves to an idea burried like
the grit of over-steeped leaves
in folklore tea of America.
I want to take them out myself
with a butter knife, sharpened
on dirty pebbles from the sidewalk,
under the stark light of bedtime
stories, told by grandparents to
sleeping grandchildren on nights
in April when it snows a foot of wet,
heavy slop, while women in small
kitchens make special hot chocolate
for which we love them,
dearly