your permanent funeral.

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

that time I wasn’t a Maxim model.

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

reset the world.

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

this is also a metaphor.

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

open.

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

the rain.

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

ode to my exes and the fuckboys, both alive and dead.

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 the dusk

while I light a blunt