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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, October 27, 2016


now she may not be convinced that
you sense or observe the world
with the same spectrum of longing
though she willingly would
have taught you to breathe in aqua
and weave cerulean blue to the
rhythm of the salt lamp and vinyl
stroking the brilliantly acute contrast of
your skin deeper than marrow

she may have even come
undone and drifted a scarlet
bird over rippling water the
leaves fluttering close to autumn
though she was not persuaded that
you understood her language or
could grasp burning alchemy with
your soul tangled in the mires
of acceptable mediocrity

now she may know stories that you
never hear and see the complex
unraveling tied to choices that
have not yet come to be
though it will never truly matter if
the strands of her hair slipped softly
though your fingers and
the forgotten cerise mandala
never made its way into your pocket

© 10.27.2016 heather brager

Thursday, October 20, 2016


I wish I knew that song
the one she played you like a fool
fabricated irresistible notes and bent
time in a gravity defying arc
that speaks words I have not learned

I can only offer my hands
knowledge I have gathered to my chest
an armful of autumn wheat
gentleness I have left
like pebbles to the trail home

so keep the pieces you have saved
the bucket of curved shells and 
lifeless flowers slumped dry
now that the water has evaporated
while I send another song

© 10.20.2016 heather brager

Thursday, October 6, 2016


was it home at last
or another version of
my wandering soul

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

give it up (because...simpatico)

three times she left the house
hand prints ultraviolet, smudges
on the face of a ticking clock
following the blue line back, because
everything beautiful is broken

how quickly she forgot that
the music was not for her
his soft pulses of confusion
now misery personified, but
the walls will remember,
and watch him from now on 

"don't give your magic to the undeserving"

his words murmuring a loop 
past the graveyard in her chest
and out through empty hands, the
quiet remains of her spread 
delicately across his comforter 

she is simply not enough, but 
that dark pond was a mirror  
reflecting her light more
than just once, failure
oh failure, follow the thin blue line

© 10.5.2016 heather brager