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 and, in her imagination, from the shores of Crater Lake, Oregon. Her poems and micro-fiction are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Califragile, Blast Furnace Press, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, among others. She is hopeful for November 2020.