Like dropped white petals
in the Colonel’s yard,
lie wing bones
and feathers—
cat, coyote, or
desert skunk,
having taste for only
head and trunk.
But, no hint of scent
of the last night spent—basting
in the coo that ended in a coup.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
On the door
was the logo of my dad’s company:
Automotive Electric.
It was maroon,
and we could sit
four across in the cab,
even in our puffy winter coats
with faux fur-lined trim
and Moon Boots,
while sliding around
on the slush-filled
streets of Spokane.
In summer,
I’d lay canopied in the back
during long drives—
comics, coloring books, and Judy Blume’s spread out.
Once, on the way to the drive-in
I sat in back in a lawn chair
(it’s as redneck as it sounds)
and slid across the bed
when we nearly wrecked,
Mom fretting my injuries
through the connecting window,
Dad smoothing and “soothing” with a growl.
I wish I had it now,
to kick the tires
like my dad always did,
to pop a sleeping bag in the back
for the drive-in,
wearing my pajamas
like people do on airplanes now,
and to feel that Automotive Electric fly
just one more time.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
under the blacklight
they glow green
and grow still
sometimes they’re
tucked into a nook
like a lost doubloon
ready to sting like a curse
for one stolen
pieces of eight
sometimes they fall with a plump green thump
on the lawn burning white
in the moon’s light
sitting like plastic children’s rings
stuck into the green buttercream of supermarket
cupcakes near all hallows’ eve, harmless—
or like tonight, behind my eyes
while dreaming, a memory, a fog of gray-green
shadow moving scorpion-like,
not carrying enough venom
to kill,
but still—
© 2025 jennifer wagner