The ship with orange sails
stands out among the rest.
Perhaps whoever chose them
wanted them to match their destination—
the horizon, or a harvest of sunsets
always ending, like we were.
Cinder, smoke, ashes. Storm jibs
in a haze of primrose promises
clutched like a fading pulse—
a final tremor against the bright, dying sun.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Swallowed up
in the belly of my bones,
a shy sweetheart, guarded.
Swallowed up
in the belly of my heart,
a promised ark, departed.
Swallowed up
in the belly of the storm,
where it started.
Swallowed up
in the belly of a hawk,
hope, disregarded.
Swallowed up
in the belly of a crow,
the dream, a shell, discarded.
I am naked here,
arms stretched wide.
I’ve removed my apron,
my soles are rooted,
sandals tossed aside—
shaking my papery skins
of ochre, amber, umber,
deep chestnut brown
whistling down
as autumn storms
cause them to do
a little tune,
wild and flush,
like milk, like honey,
like money, or better—
the sound
of the storm-crested
rustling of two.