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Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner |
The bones of my legs feel hollow,
wind tangles my hair,
the sun, past noon,
nudges my back
as my silhouette makes
a thin sketch limned in the dust.
I couldn’t read the room
for the call of too many voices,
or absence of one.
That’s why I’m out here
with the other nomads
like spent leaves
clustered around the edge
looking down into
the cold kisses
of the Colorado.
My skin, too, is cracking
with time—a horse
galloping away
back over my shoulder.
I glance at the oil left in my lamp
with a sense that I’m still waiting
for the wind to return
my spent voice
swallowed up
in the rush of deep black river,
to ride its echo back
to that which once was lush, was green.
© 2024 Jennifer Wagner