Mourning Dove in Milk and Pepper

 

Like dropped white petals

in the Colonel’s yard,

lie wing bones

and feathers—

 

cat, coyote, or

desert skunk,

having taste for only

head and trunk.

 

But, no hint of scent

of the last night spent—basting

in the coo that ended in a coup.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Quadrille

 

Prey

 

You were

fishing for me—

 

sliding your hand along

my dorsal and tail fins,

 

my dark olive hair,

my golden throat.

 

But you forgot

this bow

of sinew, cedar, and bone,

 

my Apache blood—

huntress, not game—

 

and this arrow which carries

your name.

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Q

 

Convertible

 

 

I’ve always been a Mustang girl,

 

but this—

cherry red

and just my size,

 

caught my eye,

turned my head, full throttle.

 

Oh, little red

prince,

you’re a sweet-tooth-ache

parked sugar daddy, solid, timeless—

 

and I’m still young and free

and cruise-ready

to coddle.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

Photo © 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Quadrille 227:  a poem of exactly 44 words including some form of the word “turn”