Heavy Laden as I Was

 

Pregnant with my third baby,

I climbed over the black stones

to get to the beach

near Westport to go clamming—

rake in one hand,

pail in the other.

 

It was easier than I

thought it would be, heavy laden

as I was, and the chowder made

was even better

than I thought it would be—

 

smoke and ocean air a salty brine

for my wombfed son,

the thumpbeat of my heart

and the quick-tick of his in melody—

this poem

 

resting easy

between us

where all the rocky future had been.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Prey

 

You were

fishing for me—

 

sliding your hand along

my dorsal and tail fins,

 

my dark olive hair,

my golden throat.

 

But you forgot

this bow

of sinew, cedar, and bone,

 

my Apache blood—

huntress, not game—

 

and this arrow which carries

your name.

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Q

 

Mirage

 

The ship with orange sails

stands out among the rest.

 

Perhaps whoever chose them

wanted them to match their destination—

 

the horizon, or a harvest of sunsets

always ending, like we were.

 

Cinder, smoke, ashes.  Storm jibs

in a haze of primrose promises

 

clutched like a fading pulse—

a final tremor against the bright, dying sun.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

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