Every one of us carries
a ruined goblet, he said,
rubbing a cloth into the counter,
we know it will leak,
ruin our best shirt
broken capillaries
will be
the result,
worse,
old songs
on endless replay,
still we toss the contents down.
How else can we know
the terror of love,
and if you think,
it gets easier with time--
Drink from it until your dying day.
Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle, formerly Honolulu. She has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Medusa’s Kitchen, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, and the Rye Whiskey Review.
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