Forget the old—
there’s no time
like the present,
and no place
like the honeycomb-home
of your lips. Lick
those ruby reds—
meet mine, glossed,
sugar-frost
-ed,
and salt me
with your wizardry
of bliss.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Poem-A-Day 27: title a poem “New (blank)”
Poetic Bloomings: write a “Forget (blank)” poem
Planted, it grew. As seeds are supposed to do. Water (of course), dark (sandy loam preferred), light (direct, for several hours a day). But it was a potato and not technically a seed. And, therefore, a little safer from chickadees. What it grew into once baked (or twice), au gratin-ed, mashed, fried, gnocci-ed, latke-d, made some t-uber good comfort food. And without getting too chippy about it. . .
haiku na ma tuber tot
means no eating
a potato seed
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
What’s Going On? Seed (or in this case, not one ;-P)
Day 18
On the menu:
chocolate cakes.
Two, to be exact.
One with espresso in the batter, one
without.
One apple cake, one apple crisp.
One chocolate chip banana bread.
I am making these,
which I do not eat.
Pretzel peanut butter cookies are next,
or your mom’s pistachio bundt,
or pumpkin spice cupcakes,
some with sprinkles, some
without.
I will probably not eat much of them either.
Strangely, I am baking as if they are
for repast post funeral, attempts
at forgetting your superpowers,
the ones that always weakened,
arrested me.
Still wanting you to hold me,
settling for within,
but
without.
It’s my favorite thing right now.
Cilantro leaves, Mexican crema,
one just-right creamy avocado,
zest of lime,
and juice, too.
Freshly-ground black pepper.
Salt, salt, salt.
Pulse, pulse, pulse
in the food processor—
and so, so smooth
on shrimp tacos, a cod fillet,
just to dip with a chip,
or each of our fingertips.
The pulse, pulse, pulse together
and salt, salt, salt
of us
in the desert;
jazz and sunset hues
seasoning us
in fiery orange, luscious pink,
and dreamy blues.
Sanaa over at dVerse Poetics has us Exploring the Senses in Food Poetry (I’m too late for the link, but here’s my response).