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 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.