weekday mirage 

Sophie Mo

i. monday fills its mouth with strawberries, the kind plucked from a dream in its nascent state burgeoning
from the depths of a naive child’s mind that has known nothing but how fruit grows on trees and the sun
rises at six every swollen morning ii. the moment that pair of silver scissors bites a chunk out of your hair
is the moment tuesday comes tumbling in the way you do down a flight of stairs on brittle, unbalanced
legs wobbly from overuse iii. wednesday takes residence in vacant apartments in dashes of citrus mint,
fresh salmon topped with thyme, the sourness of fingers when they squeeze a half-cut lemon for a pitcher
of iced water iv. there is nothing to be found in thursday, not when the backlights of cars smudge over
highways in blurs of livid crimson before disappearing within a blink like the whisper of a thought v. here
comes friday with an umbrella over her shoulder, bare feet hitting the bottom of puddles gauged by
sinkholes in asphalt as she throws her hands toward the heavens, wishing for the world to be oh so kind