Come to Italy and live in the sun, you write.
Serenity is a giant orange
waiting to be plucked from the gnarled tree near
the old tracks.

Look, how the years slip away from us: five, ten, fifteen…
the years disappear in pitiless rain,
while the drudgery of dishes, cleaning, laundry
that spills over the basket,
eats away at our existence.

Your spreadsheet update, those unfinished poems—
just leave them, you say.
Take the Bullet to Pompeii.

Even the ardent cadavers cemented
under glass: entwined lovers, frightened horse, chained dog
have more life in their feral remains,
than we, safe in our chairs.

Let’s not wait for a police escort leading  mourners
to our remains, but go now—silence any doubts
you have, before our swollen bodies
join the others in the city of dust.

Selected byJordan Trethewey
Image credit:Anj Belcina

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. Her poetry and short fiction are published or forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, Califragile, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Seattle Poetry Bus, and other places. She's been nominated for Best of the Net (These Mountains Will Break Your Heart, If You Let Them), and the Pushcart Prize (Surly Modern Birds).Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, "Last Note" in 2019.