Even Jehovah’s Witnesses avoid me now
since I started wearing my fur coat
year round.

Pervs in the park leave me be
until some pop tune
reminds them I’m alone.

I’m alone in a world
where a woman can’t be alone,
unless she has lost a child somewhere.

Only then will she be allowed
a little madness
in peace.

Only then will her bones
become lighter.

Just perpetual warmth around my neck
and to be kicking my heels
in the chorus–

That’s all I ever wanted. It’s simple:
our fathers taught us to dance;
our mothers warned us

thin dresses catch fire.
Don’t be afraid.

When a stranger steps forward
with an arm, it only means that
you are not alone,
even if you are.

([posted here couple of years ago, but edited substantially. ))

 

 

 

Selected byJenn Zed
Image credit:Sasha Freemind

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle and Honolulu and, in her imagination, near Crater Lake, Oregon. Her poetry appears in The American Journal of Poetry, Califragile, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Seattle Poetry Bus, and other places. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, "Last Note" in 2019.