 |
|
|
where you last swept me
off my feet
your breath
fanning me tender, fanning me light
drowsy as my fingers linger
tracing your smile
the throb of promise
at sunrise
on the rose of my lips
holds memory of the curve of your kiss
© 2025 jennifer wagner
dverse quadrille: a poem of precisely 44 words including the word “sunrise”
tlaquepaque stairway photo © 2025 jennifer wagner
Mom and Dad harvested the green apples
and then took down the tangled trees—
the apricot trees, too,
as they were dying.
But the lilacs still bloomed prettily
across the fence line
in our backyard
May to June.
In summer, Dad made a target
behind the garage
for me to work on my softball aim.
He always said I had
a good arm after that.
At Christmas, Luke gave me
a lilac blossom candle
(even his name means light-giving),
and baseball’s Spring Training is soon to start
here in the desert.
All this to say, if tattoos
came in scents, I’d get some.
Green apple, lilac,
old leather softball glove.
Little gifts lingering long upon my skin—
bright sparks of memory,
lit candles, shining always,
even in my dark.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner