Trish Saunders

KNOWING

The evening lies before us, perfect.

 Here is a table, white-cloth’d, glasses chilled.

Fern fronds wave in the night air. 

Come and drink! Here is wine, vodka, lemons and gin.

Smoking’s encouraged. Everyone’s waiting. 

Everyone she loved or loathed, throughout her life. 

Of course, she is dead. Please, night sky, be kind 

to my mother. She might think she’s dreaming. 

Who will console her at the moment of realization? 

Maybe knowing will be relief enough.

 

 

TOMORROW

Sit down in the empty park. Bang your head against a maple tree.

Observe the watery sun overhead 

as it touches your knee.

 This will help you to not hear bells

of Our Lady of the Lake Catholic Church when they peal

ten times at ten a.m., one toll for each suicide

so far this year, that we know about, 

we don’t count exhausted elderly  

who refuse to open their eyes when they realize

they live for another day, nor do we count

despairing foster kids, or trans who tell themselves,

may as well be dead, who can live without hope of love?

Don’t think I exempt myself--I know something will come

for me sometime. I will be waiting at the window. 

It will be perfect. 

DRINKING ALONE

Never thought you’d disappear

in the desolate night, Louise, 

chaotic noon always seemed

more your style.  

So I would gladly trim 

two weeks off my daylight 

for one more night for you, 

use as you please, 

maybe write    

a new poem 

for our astonishment,  

or (treat of treats!)

send your ghost to share

this bottle. 

Your silence now is lasting.

Before, it was a breath between words.

(for Louise Glück, 1943-2023)