A few days ago, I burned
my collar bone
with a wide and sizzling
curling wand.
Next day, I spent the morning
picking oranges from my tree
(not in Venice, but charming nonetheless)
and scratched my hands up
on the fruit-filled, rough branches.
These self-inflicted wounds
look worse than they feel.
Handsome scars—evidence of
the messiness of living.
If only they were all that way.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Sometimes I pull these poems
out of the hat of my heart—
black coffee, moonlight,
a silver-tipped spear.
Take what you will of them,
they’re mine to give—all or none.
Like this one.
Darling rabbit, unfrantic, and
soul-bounce away, less fretful
of time’s sand already swept away
by gravity through finger-roots,
filling up the bottom
of the hourglass. Now see this.
New soil.
Lift, flip,
start again.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
 |
This scent, this soft
sweater, both lavender,
on my skin.
I don’t know
where I got them—just picked them up
somewhere on the journey—gifts
along this path of stones
with sun, partly obscured, glinting
off miles of crushed fool’s gold—
my eyes squinting
in the dark
until the true rush—
treasure, shining.
This scent mingles
with memories of breast milk
on my babies’ breath,
fresh soap on their skin—
and that old quilt
from when I was young.
I wish I had it here now.
Purple, storied, some patches
tearing away.
I’d lay it down,
drink the wine of your lips,
pull our stories around us,
fool’s gold abandoned—
as our children are tearing away,
the lights of their own stories—
quilts unfolding.
Us, gold, rich.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
As a mother, nothing delights me more than seeing my sons thrive and follow their dreams. This year is a big one for each of them with significant upcoming milestones. What’s best is they all have such good hearts. True gold. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to see who they are becoming as men, as lights.
The lantanas are mostly deep green now—
only just a few daring red buds.
My quail chime, in turquoise and copper,
is silent and still.
There is solitary dancing, though,
at the hummingbird feeder—
a dark, flittering joy
against pale clouds
and amber glints of sunlight.
The patio couch pillows
in desert hues
are beginning to pop bright
in the growing light—
a soft place to land
near my potted sun parasol—
blossomless now. But I
remember them
from September
when the boys
brought it home to me
because you were gone.
Another hummingbird
pirouettes.
Now, in February,
you’re here.
And every day you drink me fully
with your eyes—a summer thirst
in winter, as if to make up
for autumn’s lost, lonely time.
And, I like this
all
just fine.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner