Teddy-bear Cholla

 

Out in the desert,

where you left me,

I turned to cholla.

 

I looked soft to touch,

but anyone who tried

got the wicked barb

you left behind.

 

I crawled my way

across México,

not once,

but twice—

 

where nurses

exchanged the sweet mints

in my purse

to meds.

 

I fled,

and found myself again—

peering into the

the dark, dewy eyes

of children

selling chicle

on dirt roads

near the freeway

where the poems lay.

 

I gave all my money, eagerly,

into their beautiful brown hands.

 

Now, the dive bar,

turned used bookstore,

holds my chair

with a well-read copy of

The Captain’s Verses—

 

my pirate saying,

pull up, mi rama robada,

 

I’m buying.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

Teddy-bear cholla has a soft, cuddly appearance, but is quite a prickly cactus.

“rama robada” is a reference to Pablo Neruda’s poem, “La Rama Robada” (“The Stolen Branch”) in The Captain’s Verses.

 

For Fireblossom’s Word Garden

and

dverse Poetics:  Left in the Lurch

 

Bumblebee

Image via Amazon

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 rod...fish naked!” And I lost it. I got a case of the 8^th 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.

Fuliginosity

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