Heather M. Browne
Twelve picture frames hang empty
tattooing this hallway wall
thirty-six cent nails bent
Sometimes you miss the vein
or recollections scatter
photos, like skin, tears from misuse
and vacant frames crack
There’s too much air in space
Corners don't match as they should
nails pounded into boards
determinedly hammered to join
enshrining some missing memory
Like a owner’s contract uninhabited
Living room panels once filled with laughter crosses covered in scars
or coffins tops pressed down hard to shut
words silent or abandoned
I look into each deserted hole
stained walls from smoke and ash
their singeing burn freckling
breaking the wall's skin
leaving just a welt and scar
*first published in Boston Literature
She’s going through the change.
like tacky pennies.
as cigarette butts
or tasteless wads
of Juicy Fruit.
Everything loses flavor with age.
Her body is an old bathroom wall heater
with smoky orange coils rattling.
A different decades’ model
She’s cold now,
or suffering from the flu,
With flashes of heat soaking,
she’s left out,
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, and mad swirl. Red Dashboard published two collections: Directions of Folding and Altar Call of Trumpets.