Night In

 

It’s my favorite thing right now.

 

Cilantro leaves, Mexican crema,

one just-right creamy avocado,

zest of lime,

and juice, too.

 

Freshly-ground black pepper.

Salt, salt, salt.

 

Pulse, pulse, pulse

in the food processor—

and so, so smooth

 

on shrimp tacos, a cod fillet,

just to dip with a chip,

 

or each of our fingertips.

The pulse, pulse, pulse together

and salt, salt, salt

of us

 

in the desert;

jazz and sunset hues

seasoning us

 

in fiery orange, luscious pink,

and dreamy blues.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Sanaa over at dVerse Poetics has us Exploring the Senses in Food Poetry (I’m too late for the link, but here’s my response).

 

Alone, But Not

 

There are no rules.

 

But there are,

aren’t there?

 

When nothing hurts worse

than breathing

in,

out,

in, out.

 

When my days are all

fogged-up

like the windows

of the pickup truck

I borrowed

to get to work

in the rain

 

when I decided I was going

to keep going.

 

To breathe

in,

out,

in, out.

 

And keep moving forward—

 

to pick up my son at daycare,

to make dinner,

and go to bed

 

saving my trips

to the abandoned churchyard

where I screamed

with only God listening

for later.

 

I know there are rules.

 

Remember

the magpies, the only things

in black and white,

where we searched

for the perfect fishing spot?

 

But it wasn’t perfect,

was it?

 

Fish were caught,

but every step was steep

on the way down,

on the way up.

One slip—

 

And now, how

we feel like fakes

 

after so many years

of victories

in our pockets,

or wearing them

like badges,

 

we’re shaken like game dice

held in a dixie cup

 

and rolled out,

in,

out,

in, out.

 

It’s a game of numbers,

they tell us,

and we keep moving forward,

 

as our old answers

seem puny

 

against this storm,

playing chicken

with the rules,

 

navigating

with no one listening

but God.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Late to Shay’s Word List Party at the Word Garden