Echoes

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.