Fellowship of the Glistening Cow

 

More than annoyed,

politely furious, and suffering

from PTSD,

I was elegantly unhinged.

 

I slipped on my Levi’s,

buttoned my white silk shirt

and strode out of cuckooville.

 

Sometimes I wish I’d lost it,

let them have it,

emptied the six-shooter.

 

But, I’m glad I didn’t.

Such types don’t need my help,

they go down on their own.

Plus, I thought, these are good boots,

who needs the mess?

 

I donned my Stetson,

left my name by the door in pencil,

grinding in the tip.

 

See it there?

It doesn’t say

puppet, robot, hostage.

 

Erase it

if you want to.

You’ll have to dig out the lead,

 

listening to your library of so-wrongs

singing its own music

on that player piano,

 

sounding like

a polar bear clawing

thin ice.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For the List at the Word Garden

July 4, 1989

 

What I remember

about the Fourth of July, 1989.

 

The jar of cocktail sauce

bouncing out onto the floor

when I opened the refrigerator door.

 

It landed near my feet,

glass shattering,

a small slice appearing

atop my left foot.

 

It bled little,

but left a scar.

 

Our neighborhood was raucous.

My mom’s friend from work

came to stay with us

with her two-year-old girl,

a beautiful duo of color

with wide, bright smiles.

 

While walking the block of partiers,

some teens yelled racial epithets

and later egged our house.

Those kids are probably

doing time now somewhere

for the long haul.

 

Walking back across the parking lot

from the store, just the two of us

in our cute pink and green shorts,

some men leered, catcalling us

as we neared the car.

 

I didn’t notice them,

I was a teen

in a daydream,

but mama of color

whisked me back

with a flash.

 

I’m often still in daydreams,

ask anyone I know,

but what I remember

about the Fourth of July, 1989,

 

bled little

but left a scar.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

I Wrote an Essay on Suicide (in Tenth Grade)

 

That blue guitar I had

when I was young

is gone now,

frets and strings

pulled back to another time.

 

I remember the burning

on my fingertips,

the busyness of learning

to put the tune all together,

 

and a yearning

to scale

from basement

to window

to…

 

I don’t know,

Other.

 

I wanted to send a message

from hidden hours

I’d spent writing and sketching

figures of love and loneliness

draped across my waterbed.

 

Oceans have passed

since then

and the message

remains much the same.

 

Hello. I am.  And so are you. I see you,

lily among the cranberries

in a burning coffin.

Jump, but into a place

where snow and rain are soft.

 

The tune plays softly still,

lighting matches for hope’s candle.

 

Grasp it with me, together.

We’ll need the light,

and we’ve got many miles to go

before we sleep.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden Word List

 

The close is a twist on the close of Robert Frost’s poem.  Yes, I had a waterbed and a blue guitar in the 80’s.