Ad idem
by Vivian Wagner
Be it resolved, here on this pink-orange
winter morning, with clouds wisping
like promise across the blurred sky,
that each day this year I will
watch, listen, learn, create.
If I fail in this contract let the
crows call out with jagged voices
to remind me of the consequences;
let the rain touch my skin
with its cold and lovely penalties;
let the lawyers who represent
the streams and maples and mud
send me a letter by certified mail
notifying me of the breach and
offering suggestions for remedy:
a pre-dawn hike or packraft trip,
notebook in hand as bail.
And let there be, as there always is,
an acquittal, after a conference of
geese examines the case file and
renders judgment that intent is everything,
that the Earth as plaintiff will keep turning, regardless,
that the defendant means to heed
the next sunrise, with its fingers of light
petitioning a notice of forgiveness,
a testimony of good faith.
A Medieval Witch Walks Through Her Garden
by Vivian Wagner
See that white bryony? It will scream if
you pull it, but I know the secret to pulling
womandrake. Gentle like, you see. Kind.
And that cow parsley, there? It might break
your mother’s heart, but it might also
cure it, when used right. And the feverfew
for migraine, chamomile for the stomach.
I carved this staff from the blackthorn tree yonder,
and I planted the rowan tree, just on the edge,
with the red berries. So jolly, in’t it? They say it
protects from witches and faeries,
but it’s never done me any harm.
Must protect me from myself, no?
Vivian Wagner lives in New Concord, Ohio, where she teaches English at Muskingum University. 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).
by Vivian Wagner
Be it resolved, here on this pink-orange
winter morning, with clouds wisping
like promise across the blurred sky,
that each day this year I will
watch, listen, learn, create.
If I fail in this contract let the
crows call out with jagged voices
to remind me of the consequences;
let the rain touch my skin
with its cold and lovely penalties;
let the lawyers who represent
the streams and maples and mud
send me a letter by certified mail
notifying me of the breach and
offering suggestions for remedy:
a pre-dawn hike or packraft trip,
notebook in hand as bail.
And let there be, as there always is,
an acquittal, after a conference of
geese examines the case file and
renders judgment that intent is everything,
that the Earth as plaintiff will keep turning, regardless,
that the defendant means to heed
the next sunrise, with its fingers of light
petitioning a notice of forgiveness,
a testimony of good faith.
A Medieval Witch Walks Through Her Garden
by Vivian Wagner
See that white bryony? It will scream if
you pull it, but I know the secret to pulling
womandrake. Gentle like, you see. Kind.
And that cow parsley, there? It might break
your mother’s heart, but it might also
cure it, when used right. And the feverfew
for migraine, chamomile for the stomach.
I carved this staff from the blackthorn tree yonder,
and I planted the rowan tree, just on the edge,
with the red berries. So jolly, in’t it? They say it
protects from witches and faeries,
but it’s never done me any harm.
Must protect me from myself, no?
Vivian Wagner lives in New Concord, Ohio, where she teaches English at Muskingum University. 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).
