While I can still rock
a sexy halter top, tastefully, though,
and not too cropped—
when that day comes,
ladies of a certain age get the drift,
when the question
has turned to when, not if—
it’s off to the thrift to
alter top.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words including the word “alter"
Day 21 of NPM
Sometimes I pull these poems
out of the hat of my heart—
black coffee, moonlight,
a silver-tipped spear.
Take what you will of them,
they’re mine to give—all or none.
Like this one.
Darling rabbit, unfrantic, and
soul-bounce away, less fretful
of time’s sand already swept away
by gravity through finger-roots,
filling up the bottom
of the hourglass. Now see this.
New soil.
Lift, flip,
start again.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
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Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner |
The bones of my legs feel hollow,
wind tangles my hair,
the sun, past noon,
nudges my back
as my silhouette makes
a thin sketch limned in the dust.
I couldn’t read the room
for the call of too many voices,
or absence of one.
That’s why I’m out here
with the other nomads
like spent leaves
clustered around the edge
looking down into
the cold kisses
of the Colorado.
My skin, too, is cracking
with time—a horse
galloping away
back over my shoulder.
I glance at the oil left in my lamp
with a sense that I’m still waiting
for the wind to return
my spent voice
swallowed up
in the rush of deep black river,
to ride its echo back
to that which once was lush, was green.
© 2024 Jennifer Wagner