Poet Laundry

It’s on our lips, we’re whispering the change of time while the ear tips of trees are burning orange. Seven and I pick and ...

In my thrift store psyche the ghost of you sits in a ring of dust on a table not quite antique. I keep check on it every no...

Broken, I was in a thousand fifteen places. Broken, then in two hundred twenty-eight. Broken, now am I in ten plus sevent...

On the train from Chicago we are all colors, flavors— caramel, dark, light. A young couple, clad all in red and white, waits ...

Excited to have a poem of mine in the first anthology by Boston Poetry Magazine.   Editor Mike Jewett did an excell...

Our waitress takes us down to tour the cellar added after they bought the place. They set it up for private parties now ...

Malnati’s  photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner deep dish vine ripened plum tomatoes fresh mozzarella and flaky, buttery crust fork...

The Ad Says:   Spirited. Adventurous. Intuitive. Don’t change , you say, inspired by the song of love triumphant and the scent I wo...

Like a sweaty mosh pit? Well no, that’s not it, exactly. Like a rave? With neon rainbows and ecstasy? Nope, not that eith...

a summer rain a giggle in your sleep crying, the good kind the smell of coffee the first sip breaking the last of anyth...