In the curve of 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:Engin_Akyurt

Trish Saunders divides her time between Seattle and Honolulu and, in her imagination, Crescent Lake, Oregon. She will not bore you with a list of publications, but some of her favorites are Off The Coast and Right Hand Pointing. Though she has won zero poetry awards, she knows a good poem when she sees one, damn it.