Pulse

 

After the departure

 

of winter,

 

of cara caras—

 

the arrival of white blossoms,

pollen, dusk moths,

bats diving for seconds.

 

After the departure

of my dark-mute-crash

in your absence—

 

the arrival of sweet,

prickly pear cactus,

green-purpling in tangelo sun.

 

After the departure

of cold,

of hibernation—

 

the arrival of migration,

your ready arms cloaking

the naked-bleed of me.

 

After the departure

of bleak season,

waning spirit—

 

the arrival of glittering sky

beyond palm bones—

and my ribboned heart

 

stitched whole

in the pulse

of your hand.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden

Poetic Bloomings

Desert Wings

 

Before the purpling of the sky,

a Great-tailed Grackle

bemoaned the heat

with open mouth.

 

He was gone

before the dust storm blew

across the lawn

turning it, and us, ashen.

 

There were no bells,

no ceremony.

Only this: dead

voices

 

rising

like motors running

from somewhere in the deep

 

stirring memories

of my bare feet

in the sand,

 

my hands lifting

shells from the shore

for a backward listen.

 

How different it all was back then.

 

But it wasn’t, was it?

Life has always been

roiling about us

in the mix of the fair

and the foul.

 

Did we just let

all that darkness take over,

choking everything

in toxic grip?

 

Did we just ignore it,

hoping the tide would go

just as it came?

 

Even so,

what I know now

I will not remain

perched to repeat,

 

she-grackle,

small and brown,

mouth open in the heat,

shaking sand

from my unfolding wings.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden Word List

 

Since birds have no sweat glands, we often see Great-tailed Grackles walking about with their mouths open to cool down in the AZ summer heat.