Frost everywhere this morning; those roses never knew when to quit.
Look at their withered petals, like peering into
my own face.

I’m inside this watering can with the spiders,
the deadness. As if something’s
coiled inside me.

When I close my eyes, I’m dancing.

Faucet handle screeches, and a horn
—- jumps!
in my ear
like Livery Stable Blues.

Old Victrola,
a slice of burnt cherry pie.

We’re young such a short time.
Old until we die.

Three months until spring.

My last, I think.

Selected byMaria Mazzenga
Image credit:Michael Dziedzic

Trish Saunders poetry and short fiction is forthcoming or out in The American Journal of Poetry, Medusa's Kitchen, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Off The Coast Literary Review and the Rye Whiskey Review. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, Last Note, in 2019. She lives in Seattle, formerly in Honolulu.