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. Her poetry and short fiction are published or forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, Califragile, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Seattle Poetry Bus, and other places. She's been nominated for Best of the Net (These Mountains Will Break Your Heart, If You Let Them), and the Pushcart Prize (Surly Modern Birds).Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, "Last Note" in 2019.