Lupina

 

I was the baker’s wife.

I used to dance,

late, on our floured floors,

spinning in my sequined red.

He’d called me

the fire dream, back then.

 

Until, through the window

a shapely shape, a shadow, and in

the moonlight, a darkness rose,

lingering at our door.

 

My raven hair flew wild

as night, my delicate hands

grew gnarled and tight,

and with them, a hunger

which would not be refused.

 

My baker and his lover

are gone, they tell me,

and ask if I remember

and regret the bite.

 

I answer, yes,

but what else could I do—

the fire dream inside me

became a chilling howling

when I caught the glowing

in their eyes reflected by

the telling moon.

 

 

© Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics

my hipparchus

 

mapping the stars

on my back

you don’t ask me

for anything—

 

and let me cry

to forget what’s happened

between now

and the last good year

 

you don’t ask

for anything—so i can

remember how

to give the stars their names again

 

 

© 2023 Jennifer Wagner

 

for dverse quadrille #175:  craft a poem in exactly 44 words using some form of the word “map”

 

Sugar

Street Posts, Seattle, WA.  Image © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

when your spindles turned

to char-

coal,

you wiped your eye-

lashes

and turned your hair crimson, cocoa,

blonde, black

melting in the freeze;

you, a candy in the dish,

purple and licked,

true confections on the tip

of your tongue

giving kisses

cold-

er than

they’ve draw you

in the lines

of your cheekbones

and jaw-

dropping curves

the ones

 no one keeps

past

yesterday

but still

you try to be, to do

everything they want

turning bucks

and, when honest, at your heart,

feel something

you’ve heard

is akin to love

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Wagner