safe inside a memory.

would you think of me?

would you even 

trust yourself

if the full moon was

howling your ending

would you smell regret

gnawing at your soul 

with the grinding hope

of our fingertips 

touching again

would you come for me? 

the faint scent of amber

is still licking our wounds  

and the sky is falling

scaffolding.

 
the headline reads:  the careless people won.
his last notification burns salt in the wound
                    where are you taking that emptiness?
 
the collective bond to injury,
whether band aids or bond maids
the most advanced gentlemen
have fumbled the best prizes
the most honorable men
have still not met themselves
as deeply as they have been met
 
we have seen them lurking
in dark alleys, on the stand, on the bench
six feet under ground, we have loved them
we have loved them. despite themselves.
we have covered our drinks
held our keys like claws
we have been their whore and
          their stopgap strumpet
 
the headlines do not read: the magic of love
the beauty of climbing inside
their chest after encountering oneself
honestly, clearly, respectfully
 
the mothers have forgotten who
they could have been
we have been fumbled, we have been left
we have written this poem a thousand times
holding the bag. left. 

holding the bag. 

© 5.28.25 heather brager  

surface skimming.

when the light is low 

and hazy, the hum of 

voices soaked with drink,
vague gyrations of laughter, gazes
merging would-be lovers, body heat
fondling paramours in mutual exchange,
hands caressing across the table
without fingers touching, the
earnest purls of expectation
slowly pulsing to the top,
charybdis is stirring 

in silent corroboration, 

diving down deep with

reciprocation, scheming 

to close the deal 

before last call

heather brager © 3.13.2025

just kill me now.

it is 3:00 a.m. again
and the surgeon general 
reports that loneliness is 
an american epidemic

the words spell 
public health crisis
they say isolation
is killing us all, it is
stealthily hunting me

I try to tell you in one 
hundred ways that I 
am starting to die, my
body a quivering bird 
in your cupped hands 

the absence of your 
breath is equivalent to 
the impact of smoking 
15 cigarettes per day

I no longer remember
the way to explain
how this mosaic heart 
fits perfectly in your palms

© 01/19/2025 heather brager