Poetry by Vivian Wagner

​
On a Roll

Skates are the opposite of shoes,
circles where there would be lines,
speed for steadiness,
thrill for predictability.
They turn the body into a vehicle,
pulling feet across pavement
into an uncertain future,
toward the promise of a spectacular fall.
They mimic spinning planets, tumbling
waves, the circular eyes of crows
flying straight across the curve.





Bound

The blue jay sounds sharp
this morning, his voice an awl

stabbing dream pages,
pulling linen thread.

The clouds are pink-gray ink,
spilling the words of themselves

on the day’s frontispiece. My coffee’s
soft cotton, forming an archival

​cover, and the awakening April soil
speaks of plain brown wrap.


​

Bio: Vivian Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio. She's the author of a memoir, Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), and a poetry collection, The Village (Kelsay Books).