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 divides her time between Seattle and Honolulu and, in her imagination, Crescent Lake, Oregon. She will not bore you with a list of publications, but some of her favorites are Off The Coast and Right Hand Pointing. Though she has won zero poetry awards, she knows a good poem when she sees one, damn it.