This memory . . .
a blown candle-
wick—black and crisp,
tastes of smoke-deep autumntime.
Wild turkeys ran beneath the trees;
blacktail deer lingered, clopped, crunched,
pivoted away from the cold squeal
of reds at the heel of a mama javelina
while the warm music of your hands
spread out wide,
your mouth buried in my neck
forever
taking the long way home.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Note: “reds” are baby javelinas.
This poem is about purple,
and teal,
and lemon meringue pie—
about sage green
and chicken, spatchcocked,
and grilled.
This poem is about wrapping myself
in a silk-slick black robe, disappearing into midnight,
being seen.
It’s about color—
and taste,
and smell,
and feel,
and things that just make sense
when they don’t.
Like when
and how quickly
we made ourselves one.
How it all could have been undone.
How we could have been
undone.
But contrast,
and tang,
and memory touch,
and savory savoring—
holding on
when it hurt so much—
saved us
from us.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Our old town
lies at the bottom of a lake
like Arenal and Tronadora
in Lake Arenal.
New ones have sprung up
like wildflowers
around it.
But, they’re not the same.
Sure, they have
their beautiful distractions
like scenes from a movie—
views of snakes and jaguars
stretching themselves
near waterfalls,
a peacock shimmy-shaking
on the grass,
little pastel houses
clinging to cliffs.
But this isn’t what I want.
Never was.
Even back before we had money.
You know I’d live on love.
I’d sell it all and move
to Nicoya on the cheap
to feel that way again.
When I set the table for dinner,
and select a juicy tomato for the salad,
asking you what you imagine
chupacabra looks like,
I’m not just musing at random.
What I’m really saying is—
I’ve forgotten the mystery of you,
the wild smell of you up close,
and what it did to me.
I can’t even think of it now.
And so, I scuttle about
getting stuck
in the drying cement
of our resentments,
drowning for what
the fish only know now,
dancing around
our old town.
NPM Day 28