Inside out.

if my hopeless gasping paused
for a moment, soundlessly respite
if I considered every moment
of contentment held inside

with quiet children dreaming
their own intervals of time
threaded through connections
never hampered by our lies

if I pondered my reflection
from the inside out
through my eyes, saw deception
filtering solemn, wary guilt

if absent for a moment
a day locked outside the door
which direction would I travel
which direction is true north

if air fed my silent cells
and love still fed my heart
if information fed my wit
from the inside out

if I paused for a moment
ferociously contrite
with children quietly dreaming
their own intervals of time


(c) Heather Brager 5.21.2010

Tangled up in the machinery.

their language is bare
separate from the invisible pressure of rusted gears
those once well oiled
and now a mechanic’s sordid reverie

a cup of coffee
rising steam stirred amidst new sunlight
the sense of palpable ease, in absence of weight
their elbows on the table
envelopes left unopened in delay

an uncomplicated progression
of moments that replace mislaid machinery
expression no longer wrenched
but simplicity of choice and turning a key



(c) Heather Brager 5.17.2010

In another room.

in our hands, cunningly cupped
the key, smooth with moisture
just enough shine, to bandage the wear
just enough belief, to shroud the damage

our carefully plotted notions
perpendicular, to our pounding hearts

the twist, cool with deliberation
in our fingers, loosely clasped
an image flash, the strings of memory
projections, positioned on the table

neat and tidy, in linear rows
but hidden, from our sightless eyes

inside the door, roughly ajar
as restrained as hungry beasts
the subtle lies, we whisper to air
long enough, to halt our resignation

A minor malfunction.

she was tied down tight

by freedom and jaded wit

with no escape hatch

Indecision.

full throttle, an electrical impulse
then a whisper, her name in the dark
capture me, it sighs
and as he awakens
just remains

how many new days, will break
and close, with exits over entrances
both on the same page
each beginning, again
at dawn

will his pockets empty, or fill
with possibility or regret
turn inside out or linger,
inside chance
or desire

how many times, will he flee
with a fist full of dreams
drowning under doubt, suspicion
stifling, resisting the impulse
to just be