Sunday, May 19, 2024

Mariner's Astrolabe


I’ve lost all sweetness

that used to drip

off my tongue,


and you harbor

a hive of ghosts

of my wrongs.


I can’t see my way out of this,

when they’ve come out

of your mouth like fog.


So, I am lost,


of us,

the sky a darkening bruise,


no astrolabe,

no lighthouse,


to the spent-match orb

you call

your heart.



© 2024 Jennifer Wagner



Since I, somewhat jokingly, challenged Shay to write a poem about something she claimed she had nothing to say about (astrolabes), I felt it was only fair if I do it, too.


Her poem, which of course smokes anything out there because she’s just that good, can be found here.



  1. Ah, you took on your own challenge! I like it all, but especially that final tercet. Spent-match orb indeed; a faux star no brighter than the time it takes for it to go out.

  2. Love torn and haunting. Beautiful writing, I love “all sweetness that used to drip”. I like to think that you’ve always been my mid-day sun or northern star at night that have helped me chart this life of degrees above the horizon.

  3. God! This one is a fog of dense wrenching darkness! (Rajesh)


Thank you for your thoughts!