Sunday Harmonica—after a Week of Heavy Metal Riffs

 

This memory . . .

     a blown candle-

 

wick—black and crisp,

     tastes of smoke-deep autumntime.

 

Wild turkeys ran beneath the trees;

     blacktail deer lingered, clopped, crunched,

 

pivoted away from the cold squeal

     of reds at the heel of a mama javelina

 

while the warm music of your hands

     spread out wide,

 

your mouth buried in my neck

     forever

 

taking the long way home.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

dVerse Poetics

 

Note: “reds” are baby javelinas.