Arrested

 

On the menu:

chocolate cakes.

Two, to be exact.

One with espresso in the batter, one

without.

One apple cake, one apple crisp.

One chocolate chip banana bread.

 

I am making these,

which I do not eat.

 

Pretzel peanut butter cookies are next,

or your mom’s pistachio bundt,

or pumpkin spice cupcakes,

some with sprinkles, some

without.

 

I will probably not eat much of them either.

 

Strangely, I am baking as if they are

for repast post funeral, attempts

at forgetting your superpowers,

the ones that always weakened,

arrested me.

 

Still wanting you to hold me,

settling for within,

but

without.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For The Word Garden Word List—Tomb Sweeping

Fall

 

How cozy that morning

when the deer were in the yard

at daybreak,

soft glow from a book light,

coffee cup in hand.

 

How forgettable

after all that’s passed—

when the floors heaved

and rocks grew up through the boards.

 

When everything shook,

even the air rippled too warmly

around my head,

 

my ears hammering,

tuned in to ghosts

screeching in the hollow, to

the scream that

happens before the crash and echoes

ever after,

 

when my veins stopped

cold,

flatlined,

 

in the bite

of

your

words.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Phantom

 

Disappear, float away.

It’s that easy.

 

There were daisies in my dream

and filtered sunlight.

No faces, though.

 

Which is how I get through—

it’s painful to meet all those looks.

My eyes are violet, that is,

unsure of what color they are.

 

Is haunted a color?

Hollow?

Heaven?

Helpless?

Something rare? Like an eclipse?

Or as common as goodbye.

 

I am opaque.

I am goodbye.

 

My eyes are the color of goodbye,

always gone before you get there.

Arrivals make me nervous;

leaving gives me comfort.

 

I’d disappear, float away

if I could

now.

 

But in the dream

the pasture had daisies,

my arms covered in golden light

and someone reaching for me.

 

Don’t be alarmed,

this already happened long ago,

remember?

 

Eden died, we all know that,

just don’t want to believe it.

Daisies were only part of the dream.

 

The shit on my boots,

however,

is real.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

When I Have Nothing

 

Sunlight and droplets of water

are sparkling diamonds

dancing across my neck,

 

my turned-up palms

are filled with golden light,

and the turquoise sky feathers me

with kisses.

 

A stirring in the branches

of a jacaranda tree

sweeps across my eyes, blueing them

with shadow.

 

September’s oranges are plumping,

yellow splotches forming

on their dark emerald shells—

an invitation to a far-off harvest of sweetness.

 

The navy-coal cloak of midnight

wraps me in suede, clinging

like a crush—

 

with the flaming ruby of my lips

repeating your name

on the low-howling desert wind.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner