Lyric from the Land of My Dead Grandmothers

 

 

It was just a pinpoint of light,

a small hole punched in black—

 

but there they were—

the river voices

humming

like bees in wildflowers.

 

When the light grew,

I could see

them walking there, singing—

 

their limbs limber again,

these forebears—

naked, supple, strong,

who carried all of us

into the light.

 

They hollered over to me—

grandmothering

isn’t always a quiet affair—

 

Why, daughter, why

are you sitting in the dark?

 

These women who bore so many scars

marring their delicious skin,

harvesting beauty into baskets on their backs—

 

the petals of poetry made from sorrow

and wings

where in dreamstate I weep.

 

Pillars of fire, lyric pyres into my night—

I ran to them.  Ran.

As only in dreams you can.

 

Ears hungry

for their grandmother

songs again,

to write them,

to journey on—

 

making dark beauty

from my own scars

 

naked in the light.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

For dVerse Poetics and OLN

and What’s Going On?  The Dark

Underneath

 

Photo © Jennifer Wagner

They tell you

the desert is a liar.

 

But I say,

it’s a revealer of secrets.

 

There is no blistering

the sun can’t reveal,

 

no buried corpse

the sun won’t bleach.

 

The dark and wet

obscure things,

 

but lay your hand

on the desert at night,

 

its blue darkness

will rise up in you—

 

tremoring like cicadas

somewhere far off,

 

rumbling underneath,

black

 

to match your puddled eyes

and clinging, savage hair—

 

black, to pull the darkness

stretching out into the light.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner