post traumatic.

she used to be pure

a looking glass is shattered

remnants of the past 

© 10.7.13 heather brager  

above route 3.

she is subservient

to the voices, but not

their effort to quell a voracious

taste for the truth

panic with its filthy fingers

climbs into her throat

the stale insides of her cage

coerce a plunge, and

she constructs the flight

pain is a living thing

it coddles terror in its blanket

without a heart, or wings

© 9.30.13 heather brager  

...

“I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like & dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?” ― Sylvia Plath

the mindreader.

she barely unraveled the words

recollections of sunlight through linen

she tried to recapture blended features

considered drawing his lips in charcoal

she listened closely to voices on the wind

studied a vibrant blue butterfly under glass

she wanted to decipher an alternate reality

but never could understand the language

© 9.6.13 heather brager 

saturation.

over the sand, you are

the purveyor of brine

and leister of tender flesh

fictitious, torrential tides and 

rolling down, diving deep.

I watched you

over the galley

licking the floors, inside

a deafening pulse

the sky was lifting 

and crashing

I still see you there.

© 8.29.13 heather brager     

who took my good pen?

she is racing the halls

a caged animal and shepherd of cats

she is watching the

uncultivated progression 

a frenzied owl perched on the sill

head spinning around 

the language thrown 

from sixteen and a half directions

© 8.15.13 heather brager