A draft ruffles my bedroom on this pollen-bearing night, a novel open before me as TV blares from downstairs, voices talk below floorboards, and I am alone, blanket pulled over my legs as I turn pages, a page falls, a slow turn, slow like a moth wandering toward light, and a sudden memory flashes: a headstone with a large winged angel woman near it, like Athena on a grassy hill, the cemetery green near the pond we played by
Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Most recently, she has contributed poetry to The Dawntreader, Meat for Tea, The Opiate, orange juice, The Stray Branch, The Nature of Things (Lone Mountain Literary Society), and more journals.
