Thursday, June 21, 2012

Eight

     
     spitting watermelon seeds
          proudly
     through the new hole in his teeth




Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Eleven at Tulalip


Me, the flightless bird

Soaring in your wildblue

Filled

With mysteries

 

Bathing in moonlight as

The fingers of night

Brushed

Through ribbons of me

 

Sweet, your mouth,

My tears on your lips,

Tasted

So much so I wished to never end them

 

Me, the flightless bird

Now securely

Perched

In the cove on the mountain I didn’t think I could climb

 

 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Seattle Spring


all day long
  violets in the rain
  bleed hello



Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Contagious


my sick sister
her contagious
laugh



Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Grazie, Sue Bell


bluesy jazz singer
amid the bar chatter
i drink the notes



Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Monday, June 11, 2012

You Always Pick the Worst Apples


You always pick the worst apples, 

she chided him, all bruised!

They are still sweet in some spots—

sweeter even than others without them, he said.

And then she wondered if that’s why he’d picked her.




Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Rediscovered


misplaced jewels—
that little restaurant we found,
and why we loved each other


Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Little Cowgirl


little cowgirl
on grandpa’s horse
ten             feet            tall



Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Becoming Clay


Becoming Clay
                          
Stacked upon the shelf,
my emotions, spent and raw.
Dark are they now,
and bland—
I cannot feel anymore.

Whispers of my soul
lay broken in a mess I cannot fix myself.
If I were to blow a final deep, aching breath
the shards would fly away like dust.

A single tear slides down my cheek,
like a match across my heart,
reminding me to feel—
reminding me of what I cannot lose.

It falls to the ground
reaching the dust of my brokenness.
And in the silence,
hands caked with the mud of humanity
reach for me,
His grip unafraid of the cold reality of what I am.

A low, loving murmur breaks the dead air,
a voice confident and sure,
"Now I have something to work with."



Copyright 2005 Jennifer Wagner

Monday, June 4, 2012

Corvus Observation



the black crow
endlessly wandering
finds home



Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner