Swarthy, Silky, Smoky, Smooth

I’m a 95%-er when it comes to dark and bitter.  I’m your girl, so lay it on me.  You go on and have that cry; I’ll hold your hand when the proverbial sh-t hits the industrial-size fan.  Sometimes I go well with cream in the cup, most times I don’t.  I won’t sugarcoat—but at least I won’t be bland.  And you’ll remember this night sexier, silkier than you expected.  You’ll probably even wish daylight would knock on someone else’s door for that early morning run you forgot you committed to, choosing instead to let you stay wrapped up in sweet swarthiness, letting you savor the last bit of darkness down to the last crumb, the last drop.

 

smoky coffee, dense chocolate

how such dark things

can make me feel so light

 

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics: Comfort Food

 

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

Lyric from the Land of My Dead Grandmothers

 

It was just a pinpoint of light,

a small hole punched in black—

 

but there they were—

the river voices

humming

like bees in wildflowers.

 

When the light grew,

I could see

them walking there, singing—

 

their limbs limber again,

these forebears—

naked, supple, strong,

who carried all of us

into the light.

 

They hollered over to me—

grandmothering

isn’t always a quiet affair—

 

Why, daughter, why

are you sitting in the dark?

 

These women who bore so many scars

marring their delicious skin,

harvesting beauty into baskets on their backs—

 

the petals of poetry made from sorrow

and wings

where in dreamstate I weep.

 

Pillars of fire, lyric pyres into my night—

I ran to them.  Ran.

As only in dreams you can.

 

Ears hungry

for their grandmother

songs again,

to write them,

to journey on—

 

making dark beauty

from my own scars

 

naked in the light.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

For dVerse Poetics and OLN

and What’s Going On?  The Dark

Gold Rush

 

This scent, this soft

sweater, both lavender,

on my skin.

 

I don’t know

where I got them—just picked them up

somewhere on the journey—gifts

 

along this path of stones

with sun, partly obscured, glinting

off miles of crushed fool’s gold—

 

my eyes squinting

in the dark

until the true rush—

treasure, shining.

 

This scent mingles

with memories of breast milk

on my babies’ breath,

 

fresh soap on their skin—

and that old quilt

from when I was young.

 

I wish I had it here now.

Purple, storied, some patches

tearing away.

 

I’d lay it down,

drink the wine of your lips,

pull our stories around us,

fool’s gold abandoned—

 

as our children are tearing away,

the lights of their own stories—

quilts unfolding.

 

Us, gold, rich.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

What’s Going On?  Light

 

As a mother, nothing delights me more than seeing my sons thrive and follow their dreams.  This year is a big one for each of them with significant upcoming milestones.  What’s best is they all have such good hearts.  True gold.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude to see who they are becoming as men, as lights.