In the curve of her neck, there’s longing for the man.
In her closed throat, fear.

Through sheer will
she freezes the waiter’s sleeve mid-air
as he presents the bill to her lover.

Stop, let me bend back the hour,
I haven’t been abandoned in a third-rate café.

Just give me a little blue to fly toward, that’s all I ask,
and just a little time.

Image credit:Hiva Sharifi/Unsplash

Trish Saunders writes from Seattle and Honolulu. She has work published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia, Califragile, Off The Coast, Blast Furnace Press, Pacifica Poetry Review, and other places. Right Hand Pointing will publish her chapbook, Last Note, in late 2019.