Sometimes I pull these poems
out of the hat of my heart—
black coffee, moonlight,
a silver-tipped spear.
Take what you will of them,
they’re mine to give—all or none.
Like this one.
Darling rabbit, unfrantic, and
soul-bounce away, less fretful
of time’s sand already swept away
by gravity through finger-roots,
filling up the bottom
of the hourglass. Now see this.
New soil.
Lift, flip,
start again.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Swallowed up
in the belly of my bones,
a shy sweetheart, guarded.
Swallowed up
in the belly of my heart,
a promised ark, departed.
Swallowed up
in the belly of the storm,
where it started.
Swallowed up
in the belly of a hawk,
hope, disregarded.
Swallowed up
in the belly of a crow,
the dream, a shell, discarded.
There are no rules.
But there are,
aren’t there?
When nothing hurts worse
than breathing
in,
out,
in, out.
When my days are all
fogged-up
like the windows
of the pickup truck
I borrowed
to get to work
in the rain
when I decided I was going
to keep going.
To breathe
in,
out,
in, out.
And keep moving forward—
to pick up my son at daycare,
to make dinner,
and go to bed
saving my trips
to the abandoned churchyard
where I screamed
with only God listening
for later.
I know there are rules.
Remember
the magpies, the only things
in black and white,
where we searched
for the perfect fishing spot?
But it wasn’t perfect,
was it?
Fish were caught,
but every step was steep
on the way down,
on the way up.
One slip—
And now, how
we feel like fakes
after so many years
of victories
in our pockets,
or wearing them
like badges,
we’re shaken like game dice
held in a dixie cup
and rolled out,
in,
out,
in, out.
It’s a game of numbers,
they tell us,
and we keep moving forward,
as our old answers
seem puny
against this storm,
playing chicken
with the rules,
navigating
with no one listening
but God.
Late to Shay’s Word List Party at the Word Garden
Lilies sprout,
butterflies rise up from their petals.
A new blade appears,
shining in the dirt,
flint sharp.
The beautiful things
aren’t dead,
one says.
True, echoes another.
Did I hear that right?
But all I’m met with
are bright, cherubic smiles
thrown over their shoulders
one after the other.
I take their meaning.
Jump fences, barbed wire,
float on dreams
left swirling up from the dust
on the trail.
Switchblade the lasso from your wings,
dig those boot heels in, girl,
fly.
For Dora’s prompt at dVerse Poetics