Lyric from the Land of My Dead Grandmothers

 

 

It was just a pinpoint of light,

a small hole punched in black—

 

but there they were—

the river voices

humming

like bees in wildflowers.

 

When the light grew,

I could see

them walking there, singing—

 

their limbs limber again,

these forebears—

naked, supple, strong,

who carried all of us

into the light.

 

They hollered over to me—

grandmothering

isn’t always a quiet affair—

 

Why, daughter, why

are you sitting in the dark?

 

These women who bore so many scars

marring their delicious skin,

harvesting beauty into baskets on their backs—

 

the petals of poetry made from sorrow

and wings

where in dreamstate I weep.

 

Pillars of fire, lyric pyres into my night—

I ran to them.  Ran.

As only in dreams you can.

 

Ears hungry

for their grandmother

songs again,

to write them,

to journey on—

 

making dark beauty

from my own scars

 

naked in the light.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

For dVerse Poetics and OLN

and What’s Going On?  The Dark

Reemerging

Every autumn—

apples in a bowl on the table.

Every winter—oranges.

 

Fresh, like this morning’s sun

spilling over

hot air balloons

hanging like pendulums

 

the way hummingbirds hover

over the lantanas

tormenting the cat

watching from the back door.

 

Every spring—

white blossoms in the bowl of your hand.

Every summer—rosa pie.

 

And yesterdays,

scattered like pistachio shells

littering the ground

like stones thrown

at no one

 

into the dark garden

of memory—

where all our scars

are hidden,

 

like cicadas,

finally settled

under the twinkling of stars,

 

but

silent

only for a while.

 

 

© 2023 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Note: rosa pie is a reference to the artisan Rosa Pizza (red onion, Parmigiano Reggiano, rosemary, pistachios) at Pizzeria Bianco.