Ghostskulls and peppers
line brick-and-mortars
where Santa Fe licks heels of tourists
emptying their pockets of tin.
The warm, earthy scent of blue corn
tortillas gallops on high desert wind—
here, where chance remains
of another time find me—a castaway
in some longebegone
Puebloan city—
hungry for a taste of spice
as ancient as Eve.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Poetics