Where Does Love Go When It Goes

Photo © Jennifer Wagner

 

Yesterday, I took a tomato from the vine,

bit into its warm flesh, and let it fill my mouth

with sun.  The only thing missing

was a pinch of salt from your hand,

brushing seeds from my lips.

 

Today, I plunged my fingers into soil

and found my hands unbroken,

though my heart was cracked and capsizing. 

I settled peppers in neat rows to grow,

salt drying in smooth rivers on my cheeks.

 

Tomorrow, or sometime hereafter,

there’ll be salsa.  I’ll take water, make wine.

Where does love go when it goes?  It’s never lost,

but found in the seasoning,

in the garden, of the survivor.

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics: Where does love go?

What’s Going On?  Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

Spring Break Up

 

Odilon Redon, Spring, circa 1910

 

Last night,

grief held my body

in deep soreness

underneath my roughened, toughened skin.

 

I lay awake, fearing to cry out

and uncork the bottle of my sorrows,

fearing the sound would

resemble new violin students

playing wretchedly and mercilessly,

and for too long.

 

Instead,

I listened for the birds,

like the chatter of children,

their rich, shattering joy

breaking silence with song.

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse oln