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 was only a tent splattered 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 when 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
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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.

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