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 writes from Seattle and Honolulu. Her poetry and short fiction has been seen in Off The Coast Literary Magazine, Blast Furnace Press, Pacifica Poetry Review, Here/There, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia, Califragile, and Seattle Poetry Bus. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, "Last Note" in 2019.