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Christine Braun Poem
A role I’ve become with no recollection
Of when
Or why it became me
But it has
And I look at your eyelashes when we’re lying beside each other
And I understand a little deeper
How a woman can mold herself to be another
How a woman is when she’s thinking about breathing
How a woman can pretend that the mold feels natural
Even trick herself into breathing
Steady steadier
With a hole in her heart, always throbbing, wondering when this became her nature.
Copyright © Christine Braun | Year Posted 2015
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Christine Braun Poem
I used to listen to Lana
Sit on my bistro table
Furnished apartment.
The drunken couple screaming next door
At themselves
At each other
Before he died of a heart attack
I’ve travelled far from that table.
Beautiful kitchen
Lumpy couch
Lonely mirrors
Lonely sheets
Forgot my Christmas tree in the cabinet but took everything else.
The widow next door had to leave because she couldn’t pay the rent anymore
So we were both gone
And the apartments moved on and never will remember us.
The place where I spent the loneliest nights of my life.
Blackness
Glasses of wine
Chilly chilly California mountain freeze.
I would imagine your motorcycle pulling up
Oliver barking
But prayed so hard you didn’t come.
Have I ever truly moved on from these feelings?
These flashbacks feel as if they happened just a moment ago.
You looking at my eyes but past them
You in the hospital, broken cheek bone
Freezing, rubbing my hands by the space heater crying, just crying
Thawing out steak
Cooking beans because we had no money
The smell of the first apartment- stale and beachy- with the air mattress across the door
The time it snowed and I got sushi and ate it in my bed and watched movies in Spanish
When we rode the bike to the outlets in Palm Springs and I didn’t care
If we died,
Copyright © Christine Braun | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Christine Braun Poem
Empty apartments
Everywhere
Emptiness ready to be
Created into something
But I am no longer able to create
My pen is unable
To express anything
Anymore
And there are empty apartments
Everywhere
Ready to be
Written in
On a refurbished desk
While the sky exhales rain
On the darkest day
But
That never happens here anyway.
Copyright © Christine Braun | Year Posted 2015
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