The three of us,
with the late afternoon sun
in our hair,
semi-stuck in the reeds,
using paddles to try to turn
that little pedal boat around,
our laughter
catching the ears of teen boys
who came to give us a push—
where did we each end up—
different places,
but still,
the three of us,
nudged by
wind, water, sun,
have memory
of the last golden glint
of rowing together
in a coming-of-age summer,
and the haunting song
of loons on the lake
here and gone.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
On the door
was the logo of my dad’s company:
Automotive Electric.
It was maroon,
and we could sit
four across in the cab,
even in our puffy winter coats
with faux fur-lined trim
and Moon Boots,
while sliding around
on the slush-filled
streets of Spokane.
In summer,
I’d lay canopied in the back
during long drives—
comics, coloring books, and Judy Blume’s spread out.
Once, on the way to the drive-in
I sat in back in a lawn chair
(it’s as redneck as it sounds)
and slid across the bed
when we nearly wrecked,
Mom fretting my injuries
through the connecting window,
Dad smoothing and “soothing” with a growl.
I wish I had it now,
to kick the tires
like my dad always did,
to pop a sleeping bag in the back
for the drive-in,
wearing my pajamas
like people do on airplanes now,
and to feel that Automotive Electric fly
just one more time.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Pregnant with my third baby,
I climbed over the black stones
to get to the beach
near Westport to go clamming—
rake in one hand,
pail in the other.
It was easier than I
thought it would be, heavy laden
as I was, and the chowder made
was even better
than I thought it would be—
smoke and ocean air a salty brine
for my wombfed son,
the thumpbeat of my heart
and the quick-tick of his in melody—
this poem
resting easy
between us
where all the rocky future had been.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner