acceptance is a blank page.

the loose ends you leave behind and

how you disappear show the ones

who love you everything they will ever need to know

the first stage of grief leaves you standing in the grocery store a

forgotten child, the face of loneliness wielding a knife

next to local produce and a bent woman

who shouts “dear, are you okay” as you crumple to your knees

staring blankly at the empty space

you relive the fear in your stories as a reminder that you can,

to justify what your clever mind will not permit you to release

terror follows you across the parking lot to your car

anger clings like a wet dress tripping you up

exposing the truth, spinning the truth

helpless as a spider circling in a bathroom drain

loss is drowning at the bottom of a bottle

re-reading words written by the perfect lover

who never could have existed, but in your mind

pain is a silhouette with his back to the

wind, looking over dark water in a soundless loop

though you are not permitted to see his face

because he is always turning away

the fifth stage of grief slides over you silently as

morning splays across the cat at the foot of the bed, sliding

up the wall and over dust that covers a smiling face in graphite

maybe you remember being content then,

but those eyes are no longer yours

© 4.25.2017 heather brager

the ocean starts at the shoreline.

this is you, you seek solace in raw demise

you accost by adjective and verb

burying it under allegations

of beasts for slaughter, fish gasping at the shore

discarded and digging in the dirt for forty

some years for the source

detonation at the helm

wanting, lurking, mining for the simple hope 

to catch a fish

this is you, but hope emerged carrying freshly cut flowers,

sweets, poetry and your blame like ancient talismans

vibrant as butterflies on the cover

pleading to carry you out of the picture,

if only you would release the dead weight

but why fly, when you could sink or swim

this is still you, inside of twenty years or more

bowing to a shrine of solitude that grips and holds

you back from beauty so exquisite

it would kill you the moment you heard the song, a song

vibrating from its tender soul

but who are you, really?

are you hidden within the heart she sent

one of two birds, not beautiful enough to soften

hatred so sharp your hands were crimson

before you even attempted to touch her skin,

because artists love contrast, though

you never pressed your lips to the water stain

in a promise, before you commenced digging

this is you, but fear was not your fault

and hope is a solemn beast for

you are the fisherman, and the fish

casting, gutting, drown by air

and now it is all you have, crimson

abandoned at the shoreline

everything at once, then nothing at all

© 4.20.2017 heather brager

Hans Kanters.

tidal.

she opened

her eyes as

the shoreline gasped

outward beneath

her naked feet

frigid pools

swallowed hard as

she stood alone

hunting past

the sight line

a lone gull wailed 

and wind stung

as she stood 

down an airless 

insignificance

© 4.18.2017 heather brager

cambiata.

when it has been a hard year, indelible

patterns wear down the floorboards

daylight presses an imprint against
the film on neglected window panes

limbs remain where limbs must lie in

wilted angles, measured in sepia

when alone is a place to dwell, bitter as a

worn chair in the middle of the room

tolerantly pending the comrade of

umber, who bears a smooth glass of medicine

perhaps time has unveiled a hushed

melody of imminent contentment, watchfully 
tending to deserted spaces with conciliation

leading all of the voices in conversation

until the heart skips dissonance

© 4.15.2017 heather brager

shadows of ourselves.

there was meant to be a moment when

you looked back at the wreckage and the

motion of our lives slowed to a crawl, and paused

a carnal beast could be seen climbing, a steady

silhouette from beneath the still life you drew,

with its frozen cast of characters in waiting

you the protagonist, you lying next to the

emotional in our bed, you walking across the floor

to our living room, you writing our story

and you wished to leave the newly

constructed frames, succumbing to whispers

of cruelty and odium, imagined from the depths

there will be regret, but it should not be ours

when time is released from the grasp of

bruised hearts, your character will always turn away

© 4.5.2017 heather brager

in line at the post office.

and here I wait, again

dangling left and lost

imagining intentions somehow aligned

our last error in a string of

unfathomable events compressed

into weeks, dragging us by our limbs

through shadows of time

with our swords at the ready

could we ever resolve ourselves

after the wake of destruction

and remnants of death

could we navigate the maps, and

how could you ever choose

me over twisted synonyms

and the existential loneliness

you covet like fine liquor

but you, an illuminated entrance

pulling me into the hope of

your soft palms, seraphic

lines sliding off of your sharp

tongue, pressed firmly against my neck

slipping beneath my breasts

as much the wind as a wolf,

though it was she who

pushed you back as I threw open

all of the doors, removed my clothes

and for a moment,

obliterated your armor

© 4.2.2017 heather brager

(Art, Lauren Marx)