still life/magazine cover

 

smashed fig leaves for tea on the table,

and collected plums—one three-quarter eaten,

 

white blossoms bowing half-mast

in a gleaming jade vase,

 

ironing board in the corner,

steam rising from the unplugged iron—

 

even an imagined whiff of perfume

of someone who’s just left the room—

 

my thoughts turn the page

and see

 

my parents

with their heads now bent with snow

 

and book a flight

home—

 

petals falling in three-quarter time—

like snow, like dust—

 

still life,

but collecting all the same

 

 

© 2026 jennifer wagner

  

Late for but inspired by Dora’s dVerse Poetics: Borrowing Bishop, with instructions to “dip your word-brush into Bishop’s poetic inkpot, as it were, consciously incorporating accuracy (detail), spontaneity (immediacy), and mystery (revelation)…”

 

dVerse oln #400

 

image generated by me using substack image generator 

it's (still) a wonderful life

 

a heavy garland of sorrow

releases from

my winter-ragged bones

 

sitting on this ginger-crumb beach,

dipping my sugared toes,

letting the water wreath

 

around my ankles

icicle clear—it’s here,

on holiday i hibernate,

 

and marshmallow-float

the weight, and gift,

of all this wonderland

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

dVerse Q: hibernate

 

Loon Lake

 

The three of us,

with the late afternoon sun

in our hair,

semi-stuck in the reeds,

using paddles to try to turn

that little pedal boat around,

our laughter

catching the ears of teen boys

who came to give us a push—

 

where did we each end up—

different places,

but still,

the three of us,

nudged by

wind, water, sun,

 

have memory

of the last golden glint

of rowing together

in a coming-of-age summer,

and the haunting song

of loons on the lake

here and gone.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics

 

Pick 'Em Up Truck

 

On the door

was the logo of my dad’s company:

Automotive Electric.

 

It was maroon,

and we could sit

four across in the cab,

even in our puffy winter coats

with faux fur-lined trim

and Moon Boots,

while sliding around

on the slush-filled

streets of Spokane.

 

In summer,

I’d lay canopied in the back

during long drives—

comics, coloring books, and Judy Blume’s spread out.

 

Once, on the way to the drive-in

I sat in back in a lawn chair

(it’s as redneck as it sounds)

and slid across the bed

when we nearly wrecked,

Mom fretting my injuries

through the connecting window,

Dad smoothing and “soothing” with a growl.

 

I wish I had it now,

to kick the tires

like my dad always did,

 

to pop a sleeping bag in the back

for the drive-in,

wearing my pajamas

like people do on airplanes now,

and to feel that Automotive Electric fly

just one more time.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Through the Windshield