Wednesday, February 28, 2024

the prayer.

 


daybreak has crept through

open window screens to cling to shadows,

linen curtains puff gently against the 

promise of springtime, and I pray to the

moment through my cool, naked skin


will this estrangement ever fold 

its strong arms around this body, kiss 

my aging belly and guide strands of soft hair 

away from my face, and I pray with 

grace to continue to breathe, breathe


have I ever truly encountered myself with 

the fervor of newfound love, commitment of 

starlings in early season migration, a playlist

curated though late night atmospheres of 

smoke and solitude, have I ever held myself 


gently, with the trust I have gifted men,

whispered in my ear of the years I have

captivated my own heart, granted the beauty of

devotion despite hopeless pain, how much blind

faith I have invested in each dawn



© 2.28.2024 heather brager


Friday, January 26, 2024

the second time I wasn’t a Maxim model.

you dared to think 

you were deceiving 

your audience,

ego glistening like your 

oiled chest in a thirst 

trap, charming fallacy 

with basic façade


flashing lights!  “here

is my genuine character 

       

     I feel nothing.


I will save you if you

rate me using a score 

between one and ten.”


I dared to see your divine 

evolution, depths unfamiliar 

to men wallowing in the shallows

who do not seek the truth


      verity always floats.


I dared reflect on resonant 

hope, touched another time 

with my fingertips as 

they slid across your wet

skin, while the universe 

listened and kept score

Tuesday, January 9, 2024

if only the sky.

some grey mornings
the years are a 
withered burden,
lost instructions
from a jilted, frozen
atmosphere

wet snow piled on

the roof, a blanket

over every story

their hands holding,

then letting go

tender skin clinging

tightly to muscle,

membrane, and bone


the resilient are

solitary, damp soil

thudding on the coffin

though the stars,

remain an ethereal

tutorial, drifting

across the sky



© 1.9.2024 heather brager

Wednesday, January 3, 2024

my mouth.

I will inevitably concoct strings
of veracious invocations,
plead for basic commonality
that you will choose to 
devalue on repeat, while
I compete with everything
but the fucking air 
you breathe to be more 
than interim vapor

I will lie alone

and repeat lyrics to each song

under the moon’s phases, inside of 

vacant nights I will inhale the

feral emptiness that 

creeps into the spaces

where you left me waiting,

not caring that my heart

was in my lap


I must speak my truth

I will dream of your beautiful

sleeping face and arms

tenderly with burning regret

while I repeat,

repeat, repeat

you just didn’t know how 

to reach the place

where the river bends



© 1.3.2024 heather brager


Saturday, December 16, 2023

interlude.

morning light 

falling softly over

objects in the room

delicate textures 

adjacent under 

covers


nostalgia is

silent aching


the belly

the heart

her hands 

his skin


she is 

too sensitive 

for this 

world


love is 

an animal

space flooded 

squirming under 

pressure of

drowning

 

he is 

too tender 

restrained by 

anonymous

distance

secrets behind 

locked doors


she is 

a bending 

field of 

wildflowers 

sun blazing 

golden


an emptiness

in his chest


© 12.16.2023 heather brager




Monday, November 27, 2023

just bite me.

the weather is turning and 
I am trivial and timid inside of 
this loud body, slowly peeling off 
skins to show you all I keep inside

the tide is turning and 
I am hearing thoughts you do not 
speak, slowly sifting through
the clues you give away

the clock is ticking and 
I am stroking the hours with
my fingertips and tongue, carving out
space for you inside my chest

the truth is floating and 
I am as wise as I am careless
this softness is sustenance, and
this tenderness has teeth

©11.27.2023 heather brager

Monday, September 18, 2023

your permanent funeral.



you are leaning forward, head in
your hands, in the grey bathrobe that she
gifted you for Christmas 2019
at a desk in the whitebread Midwest
after she mourned your imaginary death
at least ten thousand times

now you resurface out of the gloom
of the past, slowly rising back
into her vision, tourniquets floating to the top
demanding closure while you proceed to gut her
with the splinters of your own regret

you accuse her of manufacturing your pain, the
racism and history of violence and
abuse are hers, dragging random triggers
from the shore, while your
written words are a fabrication and
sunken apology, your attempted murder
botched by the only woman who was
brave enough to love
you and the dismantled
future of your failed escape