damn, gravity

cold wind slams the capiz shells hard

against one another and I close my eyes,

languishing the memory of your hot 

mouth on my neck and fingertips deeply

impressed against my pale flesh

my hands still smell like your skin and

I cannot bring myself to wash them,

bare branches sway as I exhale steam 

into the early morning air and struggle

to return to my trembling body

cognitive dissonance tears me open

a fixer and a healer of deep wounds,

sentient witch with knowing to the bone

I have become the man I wanted to marry

but when will he stand at the crossroads

© November 2021 heather brager

unbearable beauty.

you are no longer just
a single mother struggling for
two beautiful boys, 
left alone on the high plains.
 
you are no longer the 
desperate fear trapped 
in a closet, his drunken body 
blocking your escape.
 
you are not the confused 
little girl in the barn, 
sitting on his lap with 
his hands groping for an excuse.
 
you are not just the abandoned sister, 
the capable but lonely daughter, 
the destroyer of social structures, 
the lonely middle child, 
the temptress and strumpet, 
the solitary savior of broken men 

always with the best of intentions.
 
you try to recall the moment when these
memories became soft and muted,
their tenderness nearly unbearable 
 
like when the sun rose over the northern 
Atlantic the morning you watched 
as grief sifted through the cold April 
sand, when you did not comprehend
how you would ever find the way
back to yourself again.
 
but the faint sounds of family and 
textures of a life well lived
have been whispering
 
the quiet beauty of leaves 
dancing in the wind
his soft breathing in the dark, 
your sons’ laughter, 
 
the promise of a safe dawn.
 
you are a lover of words, 
a storyteller in pictures
a counterpart to good men,
a warrior on the treacherous journey,
a forgiving mother, healer, an unapologetic leader
 
imperfect but not broken
fallible but not afraid
you are the savior of self,
 
a collector of unbearable beauty.
 
© August 2021 heather brager

Art: Lucy Campbell

enough is enough.

from a small girl to a grown woman

I was told on repeat by my parents,

siblings, partners, and teachers

that I was too much, too demanding,

too loud, and too overbearing.

 

I was abused, groped, fondled

and manipulated, then

emotionally abandoned at just

eight years old to come to the conclusion

that I had asked for it.

 

I became self-managed,

self-governed, hyper-vigilant

and self-contained so

that you wouldn’t think I was needy,

childish, or helpless.

 

my entire life I experienced

acute cognitive dissonance as

my terrified exiles stood in the

corner with their noses pressed

against the wall, waiting for permission

to move on, while belligerent fighters

and domineering managers hissed

obscenities and forced them to keep quiet

so no one would doubt we were grown.

 

it has taken me 45 years to

acknowledge that I am whole,

capable, strong, and wise, and

it may take me a century to

forgive myself for carrying the burdens

that have literally broken my body, but 

I am good and I am kind, and although the room

is crowded with grief, I will

always be enough.

© June 9, 2021 heather brager

please be responsible for the energy you bring into this space.

there are still strikes when the blood and

adrenaline fight for the limelight

when I am abandoned and separate, kneeling 

over you while you bargain with death 

on the floor of our iron-scented kitchen.

 

I am still living the day when I discovered 

who else I am, and you transformed from shattered 

remnants of grief, duct tape broken teeth 

fractured bones bruises and wicked loathing 

that only a human made to feel that they 

must be separate, can comprehend.

 

I am still living the day in anguish only

a black boy can know when his father forces 

his breath and hands and his mother chooses 

the vile deranged beast year after year, behind 

the guise of a debt her young children owe.

 

I am still living the day when your agony 

frothed to the surface and you transformed 

from an other black man to the solitary 

conclusion of yourself, while I knelt beside you 

in our afternoon kitchen.

© 10.9.2020 heather brager

art: Tomas Watson