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 and, in her imagination, from the shores of Crater Lake, Oregon. Her poems and micro-fiction are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Califragile, Blast Furnace Press, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, among others.