Haven’t Felt This Cold In Years By Trish Saunders

That tale you told of our old farm on Swans Trail Road disturbs me. 

I don't know why you keep giving these stories daylight.

Stop rewriting our past, won't you? It's like bargaining with particle physics. 

Roads leading to our house might fall off maps; dishes in the cupboard 

could disappear.  

Knife-fighting wind, stone-cutting wind, butt-biting wind--

I wonder if that isn't Grandpa growling

from his grave, wanting to correct your trash-talking, 

set things straight, like his best plow lines. 

Can't you still see his old Chevy up on cinder-blocks?

If we'd known the wooden bridge was frail, remembered that

Grandpa's glasses were broken, were stepped on for fun. 

You've stopped listening, I see. Put down your pen, won't you?

Look up from the table, please. 

Trish Saunders writes poems from Seattle and Honolulu; she has poems published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Galway Review, Pacifica Poetry, The Rye Whiskey Review and Medusa’s Kitchen.