A few days ago, I burned
my collar bone
with a wide and sizzling
curling wand.
Next day, I spent the morning
picking oranges from my tree
(not in Venice, but charming nonetheless)
and scratched my hands up
on the fruit-filled, rough branches.
These self-inflicted wounds
look worse than they feel.
Handsome scars—evidence of
the messiness of living.
If only they were all that way.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
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Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner |
The arms and hands
of my grandfathers, grandmothers—
the gnarled roots—
my history
a map on the earth
I step over
so as not to disturb them, leave them
as they are, unmarred by my boots.
I’ve tried to clear them
so widely,
intending to be unencumbered
by what held them, too.
In my youth
I believed it could be so.
But now
I have walked a mile or two,
or how ever many thousands,
and my feet ache
with the heaviness
of trying.
The tripping, the falling,
the climbing back up.
But these I’ve been given
have led me to see,
and to sit basking
in the whispering of paper-thin leaves
teaching me how
to speak gently to myself
of forgiveness,
even more now my own necessity.
Because I am what I am
made of,
and my own stories
will fall, I hope,
like a gentle covering
for those who walk after me.