On the First of March,
the desert doesn’t know
it’s not even spring yet.
Summer tosses dandelions
through a hole in the sky.
With my face upturned,
I let them pelt me
with soft, moist tongues—
pollen making eye shadow,
powdery blush,
a soft dusting of body glitter.
With a strike of your hand
on my hip like a match,
we become a collision of stars,
a kilonova,
exploding, burnt.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
The lantanas are mostly deep green now—
only just a few daring red buds.
My quail chime, in turquoise and copper,
is silent and still.
There is solitary dancing, though,
at the hummingbird feeder—
a dark, flittering joy
against pale clouds
and amber glints of sunlight.
The patio couch pillows
in desert hues
are beginning to pop bright
in the growing light—
a soft place to land
near my potted sun parasol—
blossomless now. But I
remember them
from September
when the boys
brought it home to me
because you were gone.
Another hummingbird
pirouettes.
Now, in February,
you’re here.
And every day you drink me fully
with your eyes—a summer thirst
in winter, as if to make up
for autumn’s lost, lonely time.
And, I like this
all
just fine.
© 2025 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