Friday, July 14, 2023

After you've gone: Horses, Beer, Cigarettes by Trish Saunders

She calls across the pasture. 
Over here, I answer. 
Grasses shrink 
from her big yellow teeth 
as she approaches—
weeds don’t know
a mare’s gentleness. 
And I still miss you. 
Clouds pause.
Wildflowers hurtle
seeds into cracks
beneath the interstate,
open into 
poppies
that catch fire 
in the sunset. 
And I still miss you.
Ancient forests are burning.
Smoke dissipates, like exhaust
from an old bus, 
like the Rainier beer we poured over cemetery grass,
killing it. And I still miss you. 
The rain will return,
it always does. The wind
will have business elsewhere—
trees to terrorize, 
crows’ feathers to blow across a river. 
And I still miss you. 




Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, works as a freelance editor, and has published poems in numerous publications. 

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