Natia

Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

It was obvious

why she’d chosen the Marietta Diner,

in retrospect.

 

Spacecraft-esque and in Georgia.

 

She spilled a Coke

meant for someone else’s table

when she placed

a Cobb salad in front of me,

 

shaken by a few Russians discussing

the cosmonauts in a cloud of smoke nearby.

 

That’s when we’d recognized her

from a grainy photograph on the History Channel.

And of course, she’d had a different name.

 

Soon after, she’d been replaced

and we were told she’d taken ill.

 

But as we walked toward our Chevy,

there she was

crouching down behind it,

bumming a ride.

 

If someone is brave enough

to wear a red leather jumpsuit

and they ask for your help,

you know they need it.

 

So, we dropped her “anywhere,”

as requested.

She blew us a kiss,

and one toward the east,

 

then strode high, helmet in hand,

toward Narikala

and, we hoped, 

home.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

For Shay’s Word Garden Word List

 

Since I recently returned from a trip to Georgia (state not country) and watched (tripped-out over) Season 1 of Constellation, this is what the muse gave.

 

National Poetry Month: Day 2

 

The Dust Comes Out Like Stars

(Scratching Out This New Arizona Life)

 

In the air,

the scent of mesquite trees

and fry bread.

 

By the side of the road,

a dark head bobbing

above a collection

of turquoise and silver rings.

 

On my skin,

a touch of needling sun

like fresh stitching on a wound

too long held open.

 

Jesus healed with spit and dust.

 

A vermilion flycatcher,

like blood confetti

dripping from branch,

to branch,

to branch—

 

let’s me get closer

each time he sees us,

 

my hands full of mud.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner