her gypsy soul
trills in the desert sunrise
after groaning
a midnight whale song—
deep thrumming
heard even in the boughs
of high-up palms
waving their burnt-black sails
after pillage and storm—
her song a zing, whistling light,
when her pirate’s come safely home
© 2025 jennifer wagner
a q44 for dVerse: zing
Mom and Dad harvested the green apples
and then took down the tangled trees—
the apricot trees, too,
as they were dying.
But the lilacs still bloomed prettily
across the fence line
in our backyard
May to June.
In summer, Dad made a target
behind the garage
for me to work on my softball aim.
He always said I had
a good arm after that.
At Christmas, Luke gave me
a lilac blossom candle
(even his name means light-giving),
and baseball’s Spring Training is soon to start
here in the desert.
All this to say, if tattoos
came in scents, I’d get some.
Green apple, lilac,
old leather softball glove.
Little gifts lingering long upon my skin—
bright sparks of memory,
lit candles, shining always,
even in my dark.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
To be happy
you must name your children
after wolves
or parakeets
(see them run, see them hunt, see them chirp and fly).
To be happy, truly,
you must go out after dark
and squint
until you see something
(you know what I mean).
What I’m telling you is,
to be happy
you must grab a bag of Cheetos
and crayons
and sit poolside
like a loony
whispering love notes
to the sky
(write them down,
make a poem
in color,
and lick your fingers).
Just do it.
You’ll feel better,
trust me.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner