(Scratching Out This New Arizona Life)
In the air,
the scent of mesquite trees
and fry bread.
By the side of the road,
a dark head bobbing
above a collection
of turquoise and silver rings.
On my skin,
a touch of needling sun
like fresh stitching on a wound
too long held open.
Jesus healed with spit and dust.
A vermilion flycatcher,
like blood confetti
dripping from branch,
to branch,
to branch—
let’s me get closer
each time he sees us,
my hands full of mud.
© 2024 Jennifer Wagner
all i wore
was the solid ruby
on my breastbone
and the moonlight
upon my skin
and your hands
sent to measure me
and my scars
fading from pink
to white
© 2024 jennifer wagner
When you found me
I was face up in snow,
crows pecking my neck,
my voice box removed
in bloody clumps around me,
my eyes staring straight up
at clouds meant for someone else’s rain.
But you
enclosed my hand around a lightning bolt
and I stood up—
my voice a thunderclap
scattering dark birds to the storm-crackled sky.
© 2024 Jennifer Wagner