unbearable beauty.

you are no longer just
a single mother struggling for
two beautiful boys, 
left alone on the high plains.
 
you are no longer the 
desperate fear trapped 
in a closet, his drunken body 
blocking your escape.
 
you are not the confused 
little girl in the barn, 
sitting on his lap with 
his hands groping for an excuse.
 
you are not just the abandoned sister, 
the capable but lonely daughter, 
the destroyer of social structures, 
the lonely middle child, 
the temptress and strumpet, 
the solitary savior of broken men 

always with the best of intentions.
 
you try to recall the moment when these
memories became soft and muted,
their tenderness nearly unbearable 
 
like when the sun rose over the northern 
Atlantic the morning you watched 
as grief sifted through the cold April 
sand, when you did not comprehend
how you would ever find the way
back to yourself again.
 
but the faint sounds of family and 
textures of a life well lived
have been whispering
 
the quiet beauty of leaves 
dancing in the wind
his soft breathing in the dark, 
your sons’ laughter, 
 
the promise of a safe dawn.
 
you are a lover of words, 
a storyteller in pictures
a counterpart to good men,
a warrior on the treacherous journey,
a forgiving mother, healer, an unapologetic leader
 
imperfect but not broken
fallible but not afraid
you are the savior of self,
 
a collector of unbearable beauty.
 
© August 2021 heather brager

Art: Lucy Campbell

enough is enough.

from a small girl to a grown woman

I was told on repeat by my parents,

siblings, partners, and teachers

that I was too much, too demanding,

too loud, and too overbearing.

 

I was abused, groped, fondled

and manipulated, then

emotionally abandoned at just

eight years old to come to the conclusion

that I had asked for it.

 

I became self-managed,

self-governed, hyper-vigilant

and self-contained so

that you wouldn’t think I was needy,

childish, or helpless.

 

my entire life I experienced

acute cognitive dissonance as

my terrified exiles stood in the

corner with their noses pressed

against the wall, waiting for permission

to move on, while belligerent fighters

and domineering managers hissed

obscenities and forced them to keep quiet

so no one would doubt we were grown.

 

it has taken me 45 years to

acknowledge that I am whole,

capable, strong, and wise, and

it may take me a century to

forgive myself for carrying the burdens

that have literally broken my body, but 

I am good and I am kind, and although the room

is crowded with grief, I will

always be enough.

© June 9, 2021 heather brager

please be responsible for the energy you bring into this space.

there are still strikes when the blood and

adrenaline fight for the limelight

when I am abandoned and separate, kneeling 

over you while you bargain with death 

on the floor of our iron-scented kitchen.

 

I am still living the day when I discovered 

who else I am, and you transformed from shattered 

remnants of grief, duct tape broken teeth 

fractured bones bruises and wicked loathing 

that only a human made to feel that they 

must be separate, can comprehend.

 

I am still living the day in anguish only

a black boy can know when his father forces 

his breath and hands and his mother chooses 

the vile deranged beast year after year, behind 

the guise of a debt her young children owe.

 

I am still living the day when your agony 

frothed to the surface and you transformed 

from an other black man to the solitary 

conclusion of yourself, while I knelt beside you 

in our afternoon kitchen.

© 10.9.2020 heather brager

art: Tomas Watson

recollections of a young girl.

she was usually a solitary child, despite the anxious

smiles and chatter, despite the family narrative

telling her who she was, while hundreds of books

were devoured by her insomnia, she

became a cherished companion of the

giant oak where the crows spoke tales of places she

would not see until she was grown, places

only lonely children would dream of

she often watched the creatures who

crept through the undergrowth, visited with fairies

living joyously beneath the ferns, imagined they were waiting the

arrival of their freckled queen with mud under her fingernails, and

mayflowers tucked behind each ear, a girl

who only wanted to be chosen,

for someone to sit quietly next

to her in the grass while petting her hair,

just long enough to share dreams

though crows are not so affectionate, and little

brothers and spiteful older sisters willed her invisible

the girl was nearly unnoticed to the martyr who hated

her life, who made it known that she despised the

old house in the woods, and had given up everything

she ever could have been, just so her ungrateful little brats

would launch her high above the other mothers

out of pure obligation, the other mothers who actually 

wanted to know what their little girls were thinking 

and dreaming, mothers who truly wanted to know 

that their daughters were safe inside

their own minds, instead of making them out to be sneaky

little sluts, just waiting for an opportunity

to further destroy their mother’s life

© 12.5.2019 heather brager

springtime, again.

prevailing face and a ritual, the

farewell gloaming over the impending,

anxiety locking its jaws, bracing for

inevitable impact of slamming the door, the

lost and unprotected soul, out into vast

loneliness wandering aimlessly

through the morgue, until a choice

was made to consent, to accept

full stop. 

slowly let the door settle against the

frame, rest your hand on his chest, hear

the cats roam freely, the kids listening to

low murmurs of adults managing a

morning, plans for creating and holding

time close, while peering back through

a cloudy mirror, just cradle tender 

young blossoms, to flourish

© 3.26.2019 heather brager

january love.

some mornings, I am quiet 

snow cascading over the 

ramen noodles

the kid smashed on 

the back deck

I am the chipped 

mug full of creamy coffee 

held in two hands while 

I speak in cat voice to the 

only creatures who don’t 

roll their eyes when I 

am a hot mess

most nights I am 

whiskey sliding down your

throat, smoke in your eyes, a wild

tiger lily waiting to be plucked, the

queen of cups, devoted

like an addict

© 1.29.2019 heather brager

past life.

I have been 
so alone 

that I have 
chewed 

the entire rind,

slowly tipped 
my very last 
bottle, I was
never warm 
enough 

for you, death 
by 1000 strokes 
of my pencil, a
nameless

soundtrack 
filling 

hours that

I will never 

get back