Showing posts with label Falling Out of Rhyme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Falling Out of Rhyme. Show all posts

Thursday, January 30, 2025

The Crow Angel

 

Crow, I said,

that’s a stone in your beak,

not a seed.

 

But she didn’t stop

and kept tapping against the rock.

 

It split in two

and out came a parasite

which perched on her back.

 

It grew over time, over time, over time,

and crow bowed down

and died.

 

I lay on the bed

of her black feathers

and they turned white,

 

in my deepest January,

as snow fell,

lingering, drifting, layering,

 

while all burned up around me.

The feathered angel-kiss kept me

cold, safe and numb.

 

Arrows swarmed the air—

hissing, a warring beast

took aim, fired—

 

and then Thor’s arms came

and I flew

burning like a phoenix—

 

the foul dart,

pulled

from my back,

 

crushed in my taloned hand,

 

fell in fire, sulfur,

 

sand.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

In Your Deepest January at What’s Going On?

 

Friday, December 13, 2024

The Wake (Break) Up

 

The severed heads

of roosters

littered the drive,

the yard.

 

We walked round them

unsure of what we’d missed—

 

some comic scene unfolding,

a drama

with cello music playing,

 

Hitchcock

standing

in silhouette.

 

I suppose I should

never have been

fooled,

 

but what did I know

of gallows?

 

There was fading light

in the lamps, and I was

distracted by

 

the pleasure

of softening together

like butter in the pan.

 

Really,

what did I know

 

of hatchets

in the shed

still warm with blood,

 

holding your hand

like a miracle

 

trying to avoid

the inevitable

slaughter at dawn?

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

The Word Garden Word List

 

Saturday, July 27, 2024

Fellowship of the Glistening Cow

 

More than annoyed,

politely furious, and suffering

from PTSD,

I was elegantly unhinged.

 

I slipped on my Levi’s,

buttoned my white silk shirt

and strode out of cuckooville.

 

Sometimes I wish I’d lost it,

let them have it,

emptied the six-shooter.

 

But, I’m glad I didn’t.

Such types don’t need my help,

they go down on their own.

Plus, I thought, these are good boots,

who needs the mess?

 

I donned my Stetson,

left my name by the door in pencil,

grinding in the tip.

 

See it there?

It doesn’t say

puppet, robot, hostage.

 

Erase it

if you want to.

You’ll have to dig out the lead,

 

listening to your library of so-wrongs

singing its own music

on that player piano,

 

sounding like

a polar bear clawing

thin ice.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For the List at the Word Garden