You can’t sleep, so you pull on hard boots,
walk to the park where bruised trees
moan and sway;
a horse with human face waits
beneath a fallen oak.

When you wake to the sound of lawn mowers,
you remember everything. The mare,
the broken black piano is a tent
with broken pikake blossoms,
like pieces of a girl’s dress.

Let’s say you do succeed in changing your life
that day, and all the others marching
away from you;
you will remember
you had one hand on my breast,
and the other pointed a pistol at the lake.
Stop me, you whispered, help me choose.


Forum Comments:At Daybreak
Image Credit:Anthony Pilon
Trish has poems published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Blast Furnace Press, Off the Coast, Eunoia, Fat Damsel, the late Seattle Poetry Review and others. She divides her time between Seattle and Hawaii. Right Hand Pointing will publish a chapbook of her short poems in December 2017.

Leave a Reply