algorithm.

in the strangling moments before waking 

I have been hunted by the shadows

whispering beside the bed

premonitions borrowed 

until my eyes adjusted to the light

with a pencil I have drawn pain

in the eyes of others

she who could see through you 

while I erased the darkness

defining our contrast

I have stared down loneliness 

peering out from the corners 

I have stood close beside you 

smothered and alone 

I have walked a path

tracing the terrible ascent 

from beneath the foundation 

I have retraced our steps,

finding a way back to sunlight

before waking to a blackened ceiling 

why could you not hear me

over the whispers of shadows

you writhed in the moments before waking

my warmth was out of reach 

while you were hiding from the sun

© 1.24.2016 heather brager

a love poem.

when we spoke late that night

my voice the unfurling little frond

your words wrapped in cumulus clouds

I commented on your lack of accent

you drove for hours on

the day that my hot hands

smelled of garlic and finely minced shallots

freshly washed sheets on the bed

with a hint of delicious night

it was 98 degrees in the shade

you acted as if you weren’t afraid

were we as absolute as the sky?

you pretended I didn’t scare you half to death

the morning you drove east

oxygen crept slowly from every room

slipped from under the doorways

the barometric pressure drew me to the floor

I can’t remember if I asked you to come back

when we spoke late that night

my voice the branch and yours the vapor

we were actors and thieves

adding the seconds to moments

we didn’t fathom broken glass 

© 12.1.2015 heather brager

the raven by Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan

the raven by Caitlyn Harnett

reverence.

I am motionless, like you

breaking my own heart again

and again.  a cyclical sun doesn’t care who I am

doesn’t care how bright.

it is just another near miss.  teaching moments

stalk us like a predator

we track her prints through dense undergrowth

and she remains indefinable

I am still like you, while we speculate

if we should have designed

a plan when we saw the doorway

but, we are unwilling to lay down

our weapons.  we are unwilling to open the door

while reprieve evades us,

film clips flash across the darkness

there are pictures we will not forget,

reminders of why we break

our own hearts again, and again

we are the same, and you are my negative

I am still, like you

© 8.26.2015 heather brager

of wolves and fury.

I am wary of contentment.

a cloaked black wolf from the dream

her feet tough and dirty

from miles and miles of running

through swamps to arrogant mountain tops

back again, through the fire

that she started

I am wary of confinement.

speak softly and choose your words

before you touch my head,

prove me wrong

give me your air and open the door

stroke the tender vestiges of unfurling

hidden behind my teeth

I am suspicious, but not afraid.

© 7.31.2015 heather brager

high water mark.

would he recognize her

passing by

on the street

a blurred apparition in

his peripheral vision

a negative of the quiet

remaining memories

she is no longer captive

beneath his ribcage

remnants of her hair

her poetry

and her smell

washed away

by another trip

to the sea

© 7.29.2015 heather brager