Poems: Heather Sager

Flute of Oblivion

Night is the Sahara of dark sky

hanging its vastness over

an abode with pale crescent

of kitchen light.

A dog barks, sound the crickets.

Memory, that lost Mellotron 

of desire, queue up

your battered music-tapes, 

sound the breathy flute

of oblivion. It’s now almost better

for a person to fall into shades, 

walking, around hedges of 

street corners.

I always roam at night

to better embrace just how small

is me.

I Laugh at the Baby Octopus

In a B movie, there’s a

baby octopus monster

that meows like a cat.

The rubbery toy

creeps

along riverbank weeds.

People have

their backs turned.

You tell me

you won’t analyze 

your fears.

You trust the experts.

I try to figure out

on my own

the purple square

of open window,

lash of cool breeze

wafted from the dusk,

my messy room,

an imaginary balloon

floating from

my brain

into the night’s sky

aloft over dark town-houses

and a warehouse, 

tracking over an alley,

and I imagine I can see

a lost bike leaning

against a shed in the shadows.

When the sky burns

Before my heart stopped, 

I journeyed

under a bright star.

Joys one by one

disappeared—left us

wanting touch,

wanting treasure.

Look back

when saying goodbye

to lost hopes.

The sky burns

and eyes will tear.

Heather Sager lives in Illinois. Her most recent poems appear in Hiram Poetry Review, Poets' Expresso Review, Chiron Review, Rusty Truck, First Light Journal, The Woodside Review and more.