mapping the stars
on my back
you don’t ask me
for anything—
and let me cry
to forget what’s happened
between now
and the last good year
you don’t ask
for anything—so i can
remember how
to give the stars their names again
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
for dverse quadrille #175: craft a poem in exactly 44 words using some form of the word “map”
Read one good poem a day.
Look up.
For every negative thought, think three positives. Because this life hurts too much already.
Duct tape your ugly mouth. You are amazing and stop saying otherwise.
When all else fails, pray.
Everything will fail. Pray.
Think of the children.
Talk a walk in nature. Breathe it in. Don’t forget what you learned there.
Remember: someone needs you.
Remember: you need, too.
Write, damn it. That’s how you know what you need to know. It’s your gift. To yourself.
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
Window. A little rain splatter
on such a large space.
Wide eyes straining
to catch a glimpse of brown,
tiny, quick-dashing paws.
Any sight from any side of the road?
Darkness darker.
Sinking deeper into the depths
of the well-worn olive green
jacquard couch,
a little rain splatter
on such a large space.
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
 |
| Piano Lesson by AquaSixio on DeviantArt |
I’d forgotten how to play, they said—
my hair like feathers, hands like talons.
But, notes fall out of the very air I breathe.
Listen—you can hear plumes, chases in moonlight,
blood on snow, forgotten prairies,
untouched fields, the glorious soaring.
By the end, they were pulling Kleenex from the box.
Yes, I’d forgotten. More than they’ll ever learn.
Gray is a color, too.
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
For this
very cool picture prompt at The Sunday Muse.
Dedicated to my 93-year-old neighbor, Mary.