Showing posts with label What Happened Next. Show all posts
Showing posts with label What Happened Next. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 28, 2015


Yes, it's a real place, and we stayed near it for a night. Well, almost. We stayed until shots rang out way too close and we packed it up, and packed it in the RV, deciding it may be safer to put some miles between us and some teens or good ol' boys shooting at 'coons and beer cans in the near dark. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. This is about hair. “Tommy's mohawk” in a Ziploc bag hung from the ceiling of the cluttered bar/restaurant, which also served as an office in which to reserve your camping space. It hung there with a whole mix of curios we gaped at and yet, were afraid to see. While, I'll call him “McGruff,” due to the gruff manner in which he lent his aid, instructed us on how to locate our spot near the river. And then I saw the sign just above his bald head, which read: “Show off your naked!” And I lost it. I got a case of the 8th grade giggles and could not speak intelligibly. So I let my husband do the talking, while the kids kept asking, “What? Mom, what? What's so funny?” Obviously they had not seen it, and I wasn't about to point it out. I think it was the long drive and the sheer absurdity of the place, but let's just say, at this stage of my life it's good I maintained bladder control (hey, I've had four kids, okay? I was impressed it held). So, long story short, we set up camp, went for a dip, had dinner, roasted marshmallows, it began to rain. . . and then, Boom, Bang, Boom, Bang, Boom. And my husband and I looked at each other, and he said, “We're outta here.” So the moral of this story is:

you don't have to
fish naked
to have a hair-raising time

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

A haibun for Anthony's challenge at dVerse: Excuse, Me, There's a Hair in My Poem!

True story.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014


That April of the fall
it was already the burning season;
petal-damp tulips lined
the bent road, curving west.

We donned the camouflaged windbreaker
of nomads, who have nothing but each other—
dashed from rock to rock along the river’s edge
watching flames lick the surface, catching fire
to ferns and evergreens,
and burning down the barns and silos
behind us.

We ran from it, singed, to each other,
knowing together
we’d be able to save us
and our crumpled matchbook hearts
tossed somewhere in the
ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk
of old tracks, trained so many
miles long.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner