Inside

 

A few days ago, I burned

my collar bone

with a wide and sizzling

curling wand.

 

Next day, I spent the morning

picking oranges from my tree

(not in Venice, but charming nonetheless)

and scratched my hands up

on the fruit-filled, rough branches.

 

These self-inflicted wounds

look worse than they feel.

Handsome scars—evidence of

the messiness of living.

 

If only they were all that way.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

For Shay’s Word Garden Word List

Morning

When the air is fresh

you feel it:  you get stronger

with each breath.

Your son

is slicing oranges

and it’s so sweet—

he’s so sweet—the scent

of his golden-brown hair

warm with sun.

The old deck creaks a bit

as you walk on it,

cracked and weather worn

as you are,

but still here,

still here.

© 2019 Jennifer Wagner

OLN