Whose ribs will fill you now, black silk dress
looking reproachfully at me
from the half-price rack?
I don’t like your “look at me!” plea with one shoulder
sliding  floorward           off the hanger.

I want someone to wear you dancing
in some dive on a moonless night
drinking cheap pink wine
out of a paper cup,
easily spilt.

I want you to be worn in
1994 before
the bars were closed
by order
of the governor,
when Portland
was a safe, sweet city reachable in
two hours by car, four by train,
and downtown was for
walking, or in summer, dancing by the river.

Selected byKaci Skiles Laws
Image credit:Artem Beliaikin

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.