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the white fire of your indignation
crested in waves at my new-found feet
like teeth
i walked out
lonely as I came,
but happy as a clam, high tide—
cowries tinkling around my neck,
scales falling, hope
spilling cups of moonlight on the sand
© 2026 jennifer wagner
dVerse q: “dig” buried somewhere in a poem of exactly 44 words
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Yesterday, I took a tomato from the vine,
bit into its warm flesh, and let it fill my mouth
with sun. The only thing missing
was a pinch of salt from your hand,
brushing seeds from my lips.
Today, I plunged my fingers into soil
and found my hands unbroken,
though my heart was cracked and capsizing.
I settled peppers in neat rows to grow,
salt drying in smooth rivers on my cheeks.
Tomorrow, or sometime hereafter,
there’ll be salsa. I’ll take water, make wine.
Where does love go when it goes? It’s never lost,
but found in the seasoning,
in the garden, of the survivor.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Poetics: Where does love go?
What’s Going On? Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow