 Heather M. Browne is a faith-based psychotherapist, recently nominated for the Pushcart Award, published in the Orange Room, Boston Literary Review, Page & Spine, Eunoia Review, Poetry Quarterly, Red Fez, Electric Windmill, Apeiron, The Lake, Knot, mad swirl. Red Dashboard released her first collection, Directions of Folding. Follow her: www.thehealedheart.net Dragging My Insides in Churn There's a rusted rake pulling my belly Dragging my insides in churn That greasy cream of butter Slick Maybe too much wine yesterday Never enough sleep Needing salt to soak up that greasy Sheen The ocean perfected its drunken fest Waves that crash, tides that sway or roll And salt, salt to preserve and Float Everything needs to be carried Somewhere far from here Messages in bottles, hope corked and Found I wish someone knew my name Remembered I'd teetered across these rocks Looking for a castle on which to dream Secure Darker Than the Sky I bought her a cactus the day after her Daddy died in a little dark blue pot, darker than the sky. It looked like a brain or a teeny tiny coral world covered precisely, perfectly with needles fatally sharp, reminding me of fairy tales her Daddy had just read two pricks ago. At least it was protected. It made her laugh, that neon orangey ball, the color of a cartoon heart scribbled rapidly, carelessly outside the lines, missing its beat. She left it alone to fend for itself as other things, others tales and pokes took precedence, forgetting all about his voice decomposing within its bulbous shape, its bright, little pricks prepared to protect. She watered it yesterday, she, a swimmer and a splasher drowned her cactus dead and now it merely hangs lifelessly, listlessly with its waterlogged head like it’s just been dragged over the edge futilely of some kiddie pool. Drooped and sleepily dead, its tips now darker than the night time sky. With its papery thin stalk, wet and soft, its beach ball head, so transparent you can see every vein, every single poke now only tender hairs, hairs you could brush with child like fingers patting her Daddy’s head, her prince, no longer needing protection, never missing a beat. To Sleep To sleep like stone settled, in grounded weight nestling under earth’s dusty sheet humming ancient Indian chant and song the rhythmic tap of geodes the beat of drums To sleep like sea sliding softly into slip sun’s strong warming blanket cooled the sigh and snore in ocean wave lullaby of rise and fall the tinkling of shells To sleep like glass sheer and transparent allowing light to travel through entering, shining and stirring gentle rattlings lucid dreams and clearing visions bright But oh, to sleep like stone I Wanna Get Laid It’s been six months now. The longest I’ve gone in 21 years. I think about it a lot, probably too much, remember how it feels. That hollow hunger within pleading to devour and be fulfilled. I am so empty. I could grab someone off the street, meet someone on-line, but the only one I know is gone, and with it all my security. He knew how I moved, understood my eyes and my eager mouth, knew just where and when. I wanna get laid but without the fear of sin, or pregnancy, disease, will he call, how fat are my thighs, am I even any good? I wanna know how to please, but I’ve lost all I know and I’m not ready for questions. What’s your favorite color? How’d you get that scar? He knew every single scab, all my vulnerabilities. He gave me band-aids and my last name. Oh by the way, my favorite color, blue. Paths She's lost within the mountain uncertain of whether to switch or back, lays her head upon earth's pillowed rock. There is no comfort. She listens to the groan within the cracking that comes between the avalanche and fall. She forgot the chosen path, misled herself along the river stepping into today's current uncertain and slipping half way between and just below the surface right on top of everything sifting everything falling next.
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