Sunday, June 30, 2024



I lie awake

as if disturbed by some

unremembered dream,

listening for sound.


Raindrops, a cricket against the pane,

a far-off haboob stirring in the wind.


The air is thick and peppery

as I slip outside

past dark, before midnight.


Some spent petunia petals

have turned to powder

on the patio

making outlines

around their veins

like burst fireworks.


The wind tousles

the chime

sprinkling me with music.


My bones dance within me,

stirring the stew of this poem.


I miss you. 

The moon is cold comfort

and my palms

never reach that far.



© 2024 Jennifer Wagner


Poetic Bloomings

Thursday, June 27, 2024

We, Each, Werewolves

Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner


I don’t know

where this will lead.

Greener pastures?

Someplace magical?

With the sky for a ceiling

who knows how far we can go?


If you’re late,

I’ll light the lantern

by the door.

But if you join me now,

we can see our flaws

in daylight,

the only secrets

our lips will tell—


and told

to get us here,


palms pressed

to our outside truths,


our hidden shame

locked inside

other doors.


© 2024 Jennifer Wagner


Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner

For Doors