I keep hearing them at night.
Maybe they have already died, but beautifully,
the way a fire can be gorgeous as a red berry-
stained mouth, luscious and not sinister, unless you fear
blades and teeth, and you won’t. What I’m hoping for you:
You will never need training wheels or bras, but leap on an Appaloosa and skip learning to crawl. You will never have shaky ankles. You will play tag with benevolent monsters.

Electricity will arc from your fingertips.

Selected byJordan Trethewey
Image credit:lostinfog

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.