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the white fire of your indignation
crested in waves at my new-found feet
like teeth
i walked out
lonely as I came,
but happy as a clam, high tide—
cowries tinkling around my neck,
scales falling, hope
spilling cups of moonlight on the sand
© 2026 jennifer wagner
dVerse q: “dig” buried somewhere in a poem of exactly 44 words
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Neither castle, nor Aztec,
not even Sinaguan.
I don’t crumble
beneath what you think of me,
nor what you’ve labeled me
with your tiny tongue.
Called something
I never was—
I outlast your angry names.
I survive by the hands
that built me, and survivors know
the power in their own true names.
You call me
ruined.
Yet, I remain.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Montezuma Castle is a misnomer. It was neither a castle nor built by nor for the Aztec emperor Montezuma. Those who did build it are referred to as “Sinagua” people, meaning “without water” in Spanish. Despite being called “Sinagua” they actually had plenty of water. Montezuma means “lord frowns in anger.”
To all my other survivors out there.
Also, after posting poems for years without process notes, I seem to be on a kick of doing it these days.