Language of Spring-Cleaning

I wanted to sweep away the disappointment on her tongue.
Somewhere there was a dustpan for this kind of fluency, clear plastic trash bags meant for the squished insects of forgotten phrases. I wanted to mop out the remains of frozen phonetics, wipe off the dead skin cells that clung like intonation around the corners of her eyes.
This was the language of spring-cleaning, the slick vowel-clusters of new magazine subscriptions and changed return addresses. This was the language of shock.