morning light
falling softly over
objects in the room
delicate textures
adjacent under
covers
nostalgia is
silent aching
the belly
the heart
her hands
his skin
she is
too sensitive
for this
world
love is
an animal
space flooded
squirming under
pressure of
drowning
he is
too tender
restrained by
anonymous
distance
secrets behind
locked doors
she is
a bending
field of
wildflowers
sun blazing
golden
an emptiness
in his chest
© 12.16.2023 heather brager
you are leaning forward, head in
your hands, in the grey bathrobe that she
gifted you for Christmas 2019
at a desk in the whitebread Midwest
after she mourned your imaginary death
at least ten thousand times
now you resurface out of the gloom
of the past, slowly rising back
into her vision, tourniquets floating to the top
demanding closure while you proceed to gut her
with the splinters of your own regret
you accuse her of manufacturing your pain, the
racism and history of violence and
abuse are hers, dragging random triggers
from the shore, while your
written words are a fabrication and
sunken apology, your attempted murder
botched by the only woman who was
brave enough to love
you and the dismantled
future of your failed escape
your lips are moving, your
hot mouth forming phrases that you
pocketed after dragging the creek for
remnants and comparable bodies
you were taught to fill space with
excuses, justification for why
you have been missing, validation
for the reasons that you keep
coming.
back.
I envision your body sitting still
long enough to feel
the mud settle against your skin,
knowing I could see you drift away
if the water was clear
I calculate and edit for days
until your reappearance, the
creature of dismissal birthed in
your absence slides out of its den
with an articulate strike,
and like the opportunity, you
are gone.
© 8.31.2023 heather brager
what is perfection
what you cannot have,
that which sets you free
and pays you back
tenderly, with cupped
hands
on this timeline
in this lifetime, you
owe elsewhere
my heart
in my mouth
om tat sat
om tat sat
and your tongue,
teeth on my neck
what is this really
how much of you
was pieced together
by bleached vertebrae,
crow feather, smoke and
the wind from the
west deepening
obsidian, those eyes
and freedom
nailing you down
om tat sat
© 8.5.2023 heather brager
he could not decipher her
metaphors, even the deep
agonic faith that drew
him to her
frequency, perfectly
harmonized, but
only when they
removed their clothes
how he would relish
a tepid avoidance
while she read his
mind in the dark
how he left like
a manufactured
Adonis, hiding
away like thin love
© 7.19.2023 heather brager
spell it out for me
breath by breath
burn me slowly with
your simmering allegory
taste the air with your
tongue and teeth
impress your intrinsic
narratives across
my naked skin
come, my feral familiar
lay down your anecdote
© 6.13.2023 heather brager
there are three
basic ingredients
to a thunderstorm
though
I have never
been an ingénue
and knowing is a
fucking
curse
this story doesn’t
have a final motion
thunder only happens
when it’s raining
you want peace
and I am feral
I have grieved you
far longer than I ever
even loved you
warped myself to
dazzle you long
enough to trick you
into staying forever,
or just a night
your botched escape
third time’s our
grand finale
I celebrate the lives
that I get to live alone
with, and without sarcasm
I weep, cross legged
on the bridge, wind ripping
my soul sliding past
my lips and over
the brink
a woman jogging
shouts: baby!
baby, are you okay?!
I wince and look away
thanking dusk
while I light a blunt
