12.6.2012

the sky is holding

we see it:  the impending

it comes down to this

© 12.6.12 heather brager

four incomplete memories.

it was most likely a holiday, as

she stood over the kitchen counter

bending forward to sip a glass of warm

pinkish liquid from a crystal wine glass

her hair was dyed almost black

and had lost its youthful shine

when she inhaled, the ember

of her cigarette shone hot amber,

just enough to force her pale lip gloss

to shimmer for a few seconds

his clothes were normally coated in dust

sometimes he clutched a tattered

comic book and his black finger nails

followed the words

as if he was actually reading them

he taunted the boys behind him

in the padded, torn green seats

until one day the red haired boy

took a swing and knocked his eyeglasses

onto the slippery bus floor

he was lying there, carefully unobtrusive

in a cold, dim room that stank

of urine and bleach

his hands were shaking slightly

the aquamarine colored blood

tenderly protruding through the veil

of transparent skin that was

carefully stretched over his bones

reminded her of

a hotel swimming pool

the weeds and wildflowers

grew above her head

even when she stood on her tip toes,

she could not see the cars that made

the rushing sound out on the road

she held a handful of mayflowers

and sniffed them periodically

with simple pleasure, and

when she returned to the house

she would put them in a glass of water

and leave them on the kitchen table

© 12.4.12 heather brager

providence.

there is a yellow home

three proud stories with painted gingerbread

that waits patiently for her

leaning quietly and sighing through the seasons

it watches the random gene of bravery

that nudges her along in a warped plane

a careful but curious overlap of realities

she can understand the creaks of boards

that speak to her soundlessly through the ether

she contemplates another woman's memories

that have set up camp in her head, while

she dreams awake through her daily life

and waiting at traffic lights

in another world that is miles or years away

from the black and white cat

who bends slowly around her ankles

whiskers whispering in the sunlit kitchen

speaking the familiar synergy

that she wonders how

she can understand

© 11.27.12 heather brager

11.20.12

we have come miles now
seasons revolve within us
we won’t hibernate

© 11.20.12 heather brager

scenery and a soundtrack.

she was in the south, the dry flanks echoing

stretching inside-out on all sides

birds of prey and iridescent clouds losing altitude

lucinda williams in the speakers

and emptiness in her palms

she was that eagle flying east and west

the midwest stretching lazily beneath her

speaking through the voice of bob dylan in the earbuds

stirring her to dream of the deciduous trees

and trilliums that raised her

she was consumed by the promise of the sea

the urban rhythms and city lights

heels in alleyways and over cobblestones

slaid cleaves on the stage and this man beside her

stirring optimism in her glass

© 11.16.12 heather brager

a new day.

there it is, seeping
the wounds and light are the same
we are transforming

© 11.13.12 heather brager

a promise.

it is not a wonder, you

ceased hearing

the sweeping hush of green boughs

outside the window

as the cities

and faces click by, you

lurch toward the guard rails

press against a bitter wind,

wish to rest your eyes

you visualize the frayed edges

of this mislaid joy, the time

when you could bend down

and lift promises to your chest

it is not a wonder, in this

world you molded,

the perspective to lose

has been lost

in the continuum 

© 11.8.12 heather brager