Pregnant with my third baby,
I climbed over the black stones
to get to the beach
near Westport to go clamming—
rake in one hand,
pail in the other.
It was easier than I
thought it would be, heavy laden
as I was, and the chowder made
was even better
than I thought it would be—
smoke and ocean air a salty brine
for my wombfed son,
the thumpbeat of my heart
and the quick-tick of his in melody—
this poem
resting easy
between us
where all the rocky future had been.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
 |
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
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.