The rain came down all day, great bathtubs full for hours, and that whole bleak
day, I did not get dressed until the sky turned dark and I heard the faint whistle
of the Coastal Starlight Express to California;
it sent a thunderbolt through me.
Which was a good excuse to open a bottle of Amontillado, sit and sip,
watch mosquitoes dying up and down my bare arm. Maybe, they loved
my o-negative blood, thought it the sweetest nectar they’d ever had.
Help me, you worthless thing, I said to a hummingbird,
she scissored her dark feathers at me, flew off.
How far away California seems, how very far away.

Image credit:Berndarnd Hermant

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.