In the curve of a 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 cafe.

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


Forum Comments:The curve of tenderness
Image Credit:Mary Quite Сontrary
Trish Saunders is a former journalist & content manager who divides her time between Seattle and Honolulu, and (in her imagination, on the shores of Crescent Lake). She's published in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, Seattle Review, Gnarled Oak, Eunoia, Silver Birch Press, and Blast Furnace Press.

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