Tuesday, October 29, 2024

Inferno

 

I dreamt your house

was on fire.

 

It was glorious.

 

I sat watching

with a bowl of popcorn

in my hands,

feet up, but then

stood up

because it was

 

Just

So

Good.

 

Your bastards ran screaming

like rats bailing

shipwreck.

 

You were quickly trying to sell

your other properties

to cover the damage,

cover your tracks,

but you were exposed—

your toxicity burning bright flames

and black smoke into the night.

 

It’s sad the way I carry

your cancer around with me,

scrubbed like Silkwood,

wet from tears,

splotchy from the rough handling.

 

Maybe one day I’ll show up

with lawyers and evidence and therapists

and sue your ugly, fat, creepy, meddling,

manipulative, controlling asses.

 

My last will and testament reads,

if ever I’m found dead in my car

before then,

with no explanation for the wreck,

 

there’ll be a church by the side of the road

trying to steal my body

and feed it to their fellowship flames

wiping blood from their cult-stained hands.

 

But, not to worry,

until then I’ll be cutting pieces out,

rolling them up in poems for Jesus,

 

and you know what He can do with a whip.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner



Friday, October 18, 2024

Hiveheart

 

It lands with a sickly

crack

in the pan,

 

not the thud it should make

 

if it were flesh-soft

and not

 

crystalline

and waiting

 

for a kiss of heat

from the burner.

 

Now, there’s a metaphor.

 

Something like

“sola dosis facit venenum.”

 

A little Latin cooed,

tattooed

in a groove on my shoulder

 

like the remembered press

of your lips,

your thumbprints to my wrist,

 

and a constant stir-

ring

turning

the sting

 

to honey again.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

A little something for Shay’s Word Garden and

dVerse: get to know kennings

 

Monday, October 14, 2024

Sarah

 

Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner

Two years

was not long enough

to know your light.

 

You gave me

your handwritten recipe

for orange marmalade;

 

your daughters gave me

your cookbook holder,

serving bowl,

a vessel of sun

from your backyard—

 

and spaces to hold

the reminder

of your smile.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

dVerse Quadrille

 

My sweet neighbor, Sarah, passed away on August 31st.  Her husband, John, passed away on September 2nd, but that is another poem.