the home run birthday gift

summer that year was a beauty
dry and hot
we pulled our hair back in ponytails
licked popsicles
and sipped water
in between games
dandelions bloomed like promises
in the outfield

it was better than my first kiss
when i got it
less sloppy,
more dirty—
savored spent-breath,
sweaty, flush, and beaming—
the green gleaming

and i don’t remember 
anything else 
i got that scrap-
book year, except the spotlight 
of my cleats
leaving a dusty outline planted
like petals on home plate 

© 2025 jennifer wagner 

poetic bloomings
shay’s word garden word list
sunday whirl

Pulse

 

After the departure

 

of winter,

 

of cara caras—

 

the arrival of white blossoms,

pollen, dusk moths,

bats diving for seconds.

 

After the departure

of my dark-mute-crash

in your absence—

 

the arrival of sweet,

prickly pear cactus,

green-purpling in tangelo sun.

 

After the departure

of cold,

of hibernation—

 

the arrival of migration,

your ready arms cloaking

the naked-bleed of me.

 

After the departure

of bleak season,

waning spirit—

 

the arrival of glittering sky

beyond palm bones—

and my ribboned heart

 

stitched whole

in the pulse

of your hand.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden

Poetic Bloomings

Desert Stardate

 

On the First of March,

the desert doesn’t know

it’s not even spring yet.

Summer tosses dandelions

through a hole in the sky.

 

With my face upturned,

I let them pelt me

with soft, moist tongues—

pollen making eye shadow,

powdery blush,

a soft dusting of body glitter.

 

With a strike of your hand

on my hip like a match,

we become a collision of stars,

a kilonova,

exploding, burnt.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings