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

 

If none of this makes sense, well then

 

To be happy

you must name your children

after wolves

or parakeets

(see them run, see them hunt, see them chirp and fly).

 

To be happy, truly,

you must go out after dark

and squint

until you see something

(you know what I mean).

 

What I’m telling you is,

to be happy

you must grab a bag of Cheetos

 

and crayons

and sit poolside

like a loony

whispering love notes

to the sky

 

(write them down,

make a poem

in color,

and lick your fingers).

 

Just do it.

You’ll feel better,

trust me.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

Communion

Sun, sliced in half—

juice and pulp and seeds exposed

by knife blade.

 

A sip of citrus blood

sugars my tongue

and I toss the hull away.

 

My requirements for the day

met: I laugh, belly deep, I dance

inappropriately,

 

I drink this

forgiving sun

into my fraying bones

 

and forget the upset

apple cart where I’ve piled up

all my shame.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Dora has us reimagining something familiar or habitual with our poems over at dVerse.