Blood and Birthstone

 

Photo © Jennifer Wagner

I loved red long before Sammy sang of it,

my hair turning back to it,

sign and signal, siren rang of it.

 

Old brick station, ladder truck and engine,

your beard, my lips, leather jacket tassel tips,

’65 Mustang, candy apple red.

 

Blushing secret, unwrapped,

sugared red to pink.  The sink

into red-petaled, satin, Valentine sheets.

 

Glass of cabernet, raspberry to plum,

Burt’s Bees Hibiscus Balm.

Autumn leaves, rubies.

 

Terra-cotta, sandstone,

sweet tomato bliss,

my broken favorite mug, blood,

 

and afterward, the kiss.

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

Word Garden Word List

 

Beached

 

I don’t like feeling

like I am a shadow of myself

standing just outside the light

in the doorway.

 

But I do,

looking in at the room,

at the made bed

with too much light

falling on it now.

 

I prefer the storm against the pane,

the wind breathing

through the hollow

places ‘neath the roof’s shingles

when it’s too dark outside to see the surf

but loud enough to know it’s there.

 

All that’s over now—

the salt washed from my skin

in the last enshrouding rain.

 

My shadow’s stuck. A ghost hovering

with no reverse

and the forward light stings

like sand whipping up

the cold November coast.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For What’s Going On?  Rain

July 4, 1989

 

What I remember

about the Fourth of July, 1989.

 

The jar of cocktail sauce

bouncing out onto the floor

when I opened the refrigerator door.

 

It landed near my feet,

glass shattering,

a small slice appearing

atop my left foot.

 

It bled little,

but left a scar.

 

Our neighborhood was raucous.

My mom’s friend from work

came to stay with us

with her two-year-old girl,

a beautiful duo of color

with wide, bright smiles.

 

While walking the block of partiers,

some teens yelled racial epithets

and later egged our house.

Those kids are probably

doing time now somewhere

for the long haul.

 

Walking back across the parking lot

from the store, just the two of us

in our cute pink and green shorts,

some men leered, catcalling us

as we neared the car.

 

I didn’t notice them,

I was a teen

in a daydream,

but mama of color

whisked me back

with a flash.

 

I’m often still in daydreams,

ask anyone I know,

but what I remember

about the Fourth of July, 1989,

 

bled little

but left a scar.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner