Green Apple Tattoo

 

Mom and Dad harvested the green apples

and then took down the tangled trees—

the apricot trees, too,

as they were dying.

 

But the lilacs still bloomed prettily

across the fence line

in our backyard

May to June.

 

In summer, Dad made a target

behind the garage

for me to work on my softball aim.

He always said I had

a good arm after that.

 

At Christmas, Luke gave me

a lilac blossom candle

(even his name means light-giving),

and baseball’s Spring Training is soon to start

here in the desert.

 

All this to say, if tattoos

came in scents, I’d get some.

Green apple, lilac,

old leather softball glove.

 

Little gifts lingering long upon my skin—

bright sparks of memory,

lit candles, shining always,

even in my dark.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

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