Saturday, January 27, 2024

The Dust Comes Out Like Stars

(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

Friday, January 19, 2024

winter sakura


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

Monday, January 8, 2024


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


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