you may never know.

she carries crooked years
tucked neatly in both pockets

hands full of hard lessons
trailing behind like crumbs

she is not lost and
does not beg to be found

she will feed you and quietly
watch you sleep on her pillow

with splinters and hope
she will be gone by dawn


© 11.19.16 heather brager

things I don't say.

whether or not
you comprehend, I can
see through the beautiful
skin stretched
across your chest
to the cells colliding
behind your rib cage.
you think you
control your heart
the direction that
blood flows, the valves
and complex mechanisms
that make you stand
here in my kitchen
wondering what it
is that you want
my fingers long
to slide behind your
ribs and wrap
themselves around
feel the gentle pulse
to solve all of the
mysteries of
this moment
but don't worry, I will leave
it there because it
doesn't belong to me.

© 11.15.16 heather brager

everything you pretend to be.

why would he hesitate

her flesh beneath

the quiet beauty 

a quivering projection 

from somewhere overhead

without a forest floor

emptiness left downwind

skeletons reduced 

to pieces in a puzzle

his face turned south 

abandoned structures 

neglected grass calling  

shadows of canis lupus

her coat pale in moonlight

protecting his throat

© 11.11.16 heather brager