Crisscross

 

Our kitchen became hers when

she moved in with us

after Grandpa died.

 

She taught me classic

peanut butter cookies—

how to crisscross the tops with sugared fork.

 

I watched knee-side as she made

cream pies, one after the other,

laying a blanket of raw pie crust in a tin,

 

poked with fork, baked, let cool,

and scooped full with mounds of creamy goodness

in rich dollops filling up the shell.

 

She shaved chocolate,

sprinkled toasted coconut,

layered thick meringue.

 

I wish I could look

into that kitchen window,

peering in from the backyard,

 

and see her strong capable hands,

her quick movements,

my eyes wide and hopeful,

 

youthful innocence and joy

sticking to my fingers

like sugar and cream.

 

Oh, for a quick taste

of memory—

like the window to a long-forgotten dream.

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings: Windows

dVerse oln #407 

 

 

Pick 'Em Up Truck

 

On the door

was the logo of my dad’s company:

Automotive Electric.

 

It was maroon,

and we could sit

four across in the cab,

even in our puffy winter coats

with faux fur-lined trim

and Moon Boots,

while sliding around

on the slush-filled

streets of Spokane.

 

In summer,

I’d lay canopied in the back

during long drives—

comics, coloring books, and Judy Blume’s spread out.

 

Once, on the way to the drive-in

I sat in back in a lawn chair

(it’s as redneck as it sounds)

and slid across the bed

when we nearly wrecked,

Mom fretting my injuries

through the connecting window,

Dad smoothing and “soothing” with a growl.

 

I wish I had it now,

to kick the tires

like my dad always did,

 

to pop a sleeping bag in the back

for the drive-in,

wearing my pajamas

like people do on airplanes now,

and to feel that Automotive Electric fly

just one more time.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Through the Windshield

 

friend

photo © 2014 jennifer wagner

extra treats,

longer hugs.

laryngeal paralysis

& age

are taking you

into

the next phase.

we mentally

try to hear

the future

empty

of hefty paws

padding the floor,

and your bones

groaning

with the creaking of the stairs.

we say things like:

remember when he stole that entire ham?

           

we’ll never have another dog

like him.

           

he’s happy;

he’s had a good life.

           

i want to be the one to dig his grave,

when you know,

“it”

comes.

your slow-wag tail,

your chocolate eyes

melt us

and each of us

searches

for how

we can learn to say,

do svidaniya, drug.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

I’ve been working on this one for a while.  Too emotional.  Our big, mellow Labrador, Druke, is 13 years old and the signs are all there.  “Druke” is how we spell his name, pronounced “drug/droogk” meaning “friend” in Russian.

до свидания, друг

Poetry Jam:  Letting Go

Poets United Midweek Motif:  In Two or More Languages