Even Jehovah’s Witnesses turn away from me now,
since I started wearing my fur coat
pervs in the park leave me be
’til some pop tune
reminds them I’m alone
in a world
where a woman can’t be alone
unless she’s lost a kid to a grave
then she will be allowed a little madness
Just warmth around my neck,
and kicking my heels in the
chorus–that’s all I ever wanted.
It’s simple–our fathers taught us to dance;
mothers warned us thin dresses
Don’t be afraid.
When a stranger steps forward
with an outstretched arm,
it only means you are not alone.
Even if you are.
Trish Saunders divides her time between Seattle and Honolulu. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Snapping Twig, Gnarled Oak, Busted Dharma, Blast Furnace Press, Off the Coast, Poets and Poetry, and Here/There Poetry.
Painting In a Fur by Anvar Saifutdinov.