Honest Lee stepped out of a dime western—
wavy brown hair, chestnut mustache,
six-shooter on his thigh.
Not anybody’s prairie girl,
I knew which one of us was a lie—
even with his black olive eyes,
black as my lil’ ol’ pea pickin’ heart.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Photo © 2025 Jennifer Wagner
There I was in black velvet,
stitched with fluorescent thread—
a trellis for thirteen roses,
dying but not dead.
Just a sprite under your blacklight,
learning moonlight is a lie—
escaping from your elf-owl-moonhowl
gaze of promise pantomimed.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Day 19 of National Poetry Month
Elf owls are nocturnal predators and are the world’s smallest raptor. Males make a yapping noise like a puppy to attract a mate.
A dozen plump oranges were hanging from the tree.
A dozen plump spiders had encircled each one
with a dozen white webs.
Kitty tried to bat one away
but it just crawled toward the couch
and back again.
You sprayed them with water
but the fruit couldn’t be saved.
Except by me waking up.
Which I did,
and killed them
the only way I know how.
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner