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.  Her poems and micro-fiction are published or forthcoming in Pacifica Poetry Review, Seattle Poetry Bus, Pacific Voices, Eunoia Review, Califragile, Right Hand Pointing, Blast Furnace Press, Off The Coast, Fat Damsel, among many others.