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. After working as a journalist and freelance writer and editor, she began composing poems and short fiction as her NY resolution for 2014. She has work published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia, Califragile, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, and other places. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, Last Note, in 2019.