The ship with orange sails
stands out among the rest.
Perhaps whoever chose them
wanted them to match their destination—
the horizon, or a harvest of sunsets
always ending, like we were.
Cinder, smoke, ashes. Storm jibs
in a haze of primrose promises
clutched like a fading pulse—
a final tremor against the bright, dying sun.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
I’ve lost all sweetness
that used to drip
off my tongue,
and you harbor
a hive of ghosts
of my wrongs.
I can’t see my way out of this,
when they’ve come out
of your mouth like fog.
So, I am lost,
oceanside
of us,
the sky a darkening bruise,
no astrolabe,
no lighthouse,
to the spent-match orb
you call
your heart.
Since I, somewhat jokingly, challenged Shay to write a poem about something she claimed she had nothing to say about (astrolabes), I felt it was only fair if I do it, too.