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"Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard." Anne Sexton 

Heather Brager is a critically acclaimed juggler of calamity, an accomplished procrastinator, and shuffler of idioms. Her poetry and drawings can be found in various digital and print journals around the globe, and on the web.  She currently resides in New England and prefers the precipice of where the Atlantic meets the sand to the official looking office where she spends most of her time. 

Thursday, February 23, 2012

12:43 a.m.

I am waiting to hear a low moan
murmuring across miles of plains
in the flat space between sleep and this room
that will never protect me

I wish I was lost again
where the sky would simply
cradle my lifeless frame
but I am a pawn without the will

I turn over in the sheets
listen to arguments on the wind
endings writhe against the window
fiends grasp at my heart and
icy breath forces itself against my skin

I know that I am not safe here
and I will not rest again


© 2.23.12 heather brager

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

sketches.

her comparisons were too intriguing
a deafening train, pillaging
along dark iron tracks
nearing the indistinguishable edge

with disdain, she said it must be her job
to hurl herself in front of it
and she often did

a sputtering plane nearing
impact with a mountain range
of teeth looming below a false
coverlet of vapor down

her voice could almost be
that of stern reason, even
with the wry lift of her lips

that silken night when logic
dodged a bullet and lay quietly, panting
on the monochromatic wool rug

mosquitoes hummed along
and time filtered though her irises
of a picture you hadn’t seen, with
the words you hadn’t written

© 2.22.12 heather brager

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

limbo.

it craves oxygen
we fan our flames with fervor
words may burn it down

© february 15, 2012 heather brager

Sunday, February 12, 2012

your word.

(click to listen)


she can hear a murmur, after a faint rasp

and you are talking in your sleep

just moments before the truck belts squealed

and for less than a second, she had forgotten you were

pressed firmly against her back,

your arm draped across her neck


for those miles through sunken states, the pilfered

softness through the nights

all stacked, shaking, end to end

but there has to be an end


then, your hands on her shoulders

gently tugging her hair

under the pulse of bass and content, warm

with too many plastic cups of gin


connected through strings to her deafening sight,

it is all tied to the baggage, the phone, the bed

she is cursed with knowing, trying desperately

not to meet your mind’s eye

and you try not to calculate the hours

before she flies out again



© february 12.2012 heather brager