when I am gone. (for Ag)

my writing has changed
like this body
and my mind.

I am a formula,
the evolution of
a work in progress

these memories of
birds, hands, skies
a field of grass.

the high plains are
vacant and impartial,
giant rock backdrops.

9.4.2014 heather brager

the red line.

the tempo is concord

searing air blasting 

the bodies

planning an upward escape

more than one man is lost,

an agitated woman acts like

a bystander, peering at

another man’s weary jowls,

a  reflection foreign

even to himself

slackened weight

and each dirty cog

ceaselessly revolving

propelling forward

and steadily upward

as daylight pours 

over them again

above ground

© 8.15.2014 heather brager 

enemy.

in the early morning, she is still missing.
the ache of failure had
swallowed her whole,
wiping its chin with the back
of a filthy hand

in the early morning, she is found dead.
dismembered fragments in a dark alley
next to a dumpster reeking of hell, but
she could not wake before
the truck came

some mornings she is still missing
she will return by the afternoon
fully clothed with hair shining
yellow sunlight will penetrate the atmosphere
smearing color on her pale arms and face


© 7.29.2014 heather brager 

mount vesuvius.

the crumpled blueprint knows this curse

it is written on the soles of my feet 

and on upturned palms

I am intimate with these

hexes in the air, and the

breathless hesitation gripping

my throat, but

these bones will not allow a retreat

there is darkness 

downhill with the headlights off, and

I am climbing from the ashes

© 6.9.2014 heather brager 

anagnorisis.

above the clamor

of our meager existence

there is a resonance

stretching to be heard

with damp restlessness,  it

writhes in the space

above where we live

in a shabby blue townhouse

where we park our rattling cars

and trip over shoes

left in the entryway

© 5.1.2014 heather brager 

restive.

I am perched right here.

it took us such a long time

to sit on this couch.

© 4.28.2014 heather brager 

spring.

she is a deft lie

dormant, quietly waiting

for the rain to come

© 4.11.2014 heather brager