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Heather Brager
Juggler of Calamity. Lover and Artist. Contradiction and Mother.
Juggler of Calamity. Lover and Artist. Contradiction and Mother.
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still human.
for year after year, our pattern is still driving with a flat tire, somewhere south of the metro, courage as diluted as our clarity of the truth, and
perhaps for a moment, the clouds snap into focus, backdrop shining sapphire, sun spraying hope, and with mo...

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less than.
the summer months are a culmination of lines blurred, memories become an animal, I look to my hands to study the lines on my face, a mirror in several dimensions, I can see right through each sensation I am still longing for imperfection, again or for the f...

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for ck
your hands left plum colored  remnants. but not because you wanted  to hurt me. we both cried about your mother, but not because we  hurt each other. you are so afraid, and  you know that I could love you. you know  I don’t  understand, so please  just reme...

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gift of paper.
insignificant hours compose a treaty in poetry, and I find myself wanting your energy back in my myth, in the one we press side by side turning pages, the perfume of cellulose and lignin on our fingertips, tracing the faint rise of what is unwritten, the ca...
gift of paper.
gift of paper.
heatherbrager.blogspot.com

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there are moments that time does not.
your blazing eyes at 10:43 p.m. glancing across the kitchen table, and her hair damp with southern humidity and restrained hunger your tears, Sunday morning drunk, exposed until you fell asleep, her hands removing loss like dust from a tabletop, you have no...
there are moments that time does not.
there are moments that time does not.
heatherbrager.blogspot.com

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sorry, not sorry.
I have lost my shit in the grocery store a damp list of items clutched in my right fist blue ink bleeding onto my skin, grief pushing my face to the floor with 1000 psi, next to a stack of beefsteak tomatoes I have posed solitary and stiff-backed in the fro...

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sorry, not sorry.
I have lost my shit in the grocery store a damp list of items clutched in my right fist blue ink bleeding onto my skin, grief pushing my face to the floor with 1000 psi, next to a stack of beefsteak tomatoes I have posed solitary and stiff-backed in the fro...
sorry, not sorry.
sorry, not sorry.
heatherbrager.blogspot.com

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question everything.
the first night she traced your  silhouette for  three days and nights as you breathed out her manifestation, white light illuminating the outline to remind of the spaces in between true  focus, following your every move, even in dreams they lie side by sid...

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are you listening?
there are forgotten
stories inscribed in words, symbols
and images scrawled across
damp walls, under decaying floors, a history buried
far beneath the earth, steadily uncovered in rhythmic codes revealing time and future, queens
and their kings, records
wov...

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Broadway.
I may may not understand why you closed the door quietly behind you that night, hesitating over your shoulder for just a second. I somehow hoped I was enough, but always knew better. I speculated for weeks, looking for you at stoplights, drawing your beauti...
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