Ghostskulls and peppers
line brick-and-mortars
where Santa Fe licks heels of tourists
emptying their pockets of tin.
The warm, earthy scent of blue corn
tortillas gallops on high desert wind—
here, where chance remains
of another time find me—a castaway
in some longebegone
Puebloan city—
hungry for a taste of spice
as ancient as Eve.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Poetics
near the greenhouse
the hive was being smoked
soothing the bees
gorging themselves on honey
the garden pale as a powdered queen
in waning light
eve’s darkness growing
like ivy across the fence
the teeth of humidity bearing down
on us like childbirth
turning, i remember saying,
i don’t wear blue much, but—
noticing your sea-filled eyes
decided i could
just this once
© 2025 jennifer wagner
