Poetry: Selections from Braeden Sagehorn

A touch of you
i broke away from the wind
yesterday, it was freeing;
for the first time in my life 
there was no motion against
my body. and i walked about the yard
feet pressed against the grass
hugging its sides
gliding from place
to place in search 
of what? i’m not sure, 
myself, but the warmth 
of the sun against the tops
of my toes feels so relaxing.
i could just stand here
and take it all in, 
all day. is this what spring is like?

i’m thinking of ending things
the last time we fucked 
i didn’t feel like myself—
well i never do, but this time
was different.
i’m not sure if it's me, or if
its something else, no wait,
it's definitely me.
it has to be me!
and i would say i’m sorry because
i know you’ll think i owe you the 
spiel that its me, but now as i think 
about it, it might be you. in fact, 
it is all you
but i won’t crush your heart
between my fingers. i’ll play my
part, i’ll say the lines:
“it’s not you, it’s me”. that’s right,
for my last words to you will be 
a lie.

watching movies by a pool of mercury
towards the window i see a film of a 
ballet unknown to me.
unknown to the neighbors too, it must be a
new screening; cars scattered across
the lot. 
a man reaches to hug his girlfriend but is
rejected—pushed away—an emotional state
assumed to be capsized by the sadness in
her eyes.
thoughts unknown, but actions ever present,
effervescent is her face, under pressure to 
reassure him that the horrors
of separation is movement forward
not backwards.
in this horror screening i see from my
window that which takes me back 
over my bed unto the 
floor; dragged to the lake now beneath
the surface she ceases to move.
a life similar, no life the same; bashed against
the glass of the bedroom mirror, cheek married
to its pain. her mouth forced to
breath a reflective heat; still
plastered to the glass is the boy  
on the screen, torn apart,
and the boy in his room spins— 
twirls—a ballerina trapped in front
of the crowd. inside the silver
screen, outside,
no choice but to perform, 
but the man on the film
isn’t real. 
you are. 

A father begets mischief
White buffers blonde inspiration down
to a bruised, mangled man
who stands in the door frame with
legs weak, and heavy.
He collapses, reaching still to grab the 
frame for an edge to lift up from, 
but he can’t 
so, he crawls to the nearest table and
hoists his legs, then hips, higher and higher
until his torso breaches the heavens. 
He stands now, and attempts to meander
to the living room 
to rest on his couch, but his legs
give out mid walk—chin crashes to the floor 
a shockwave ripples through his jaw, critical
hours await him, but he proceeds onwards 
to the couch
dragging his legs with him until the base
of the cushion meets his eye 
here he hoists again his weight up and
over unto the bed where he lays lavishly
lapping up the heat from the ray projecting
from the window to his head’s
Finally, after hours his wife arrives 
bursting through the door and into
the living room to find her husband 
at peace on the couch 
eyes widening a width greater than 
Tartarus, he speaks
the kids hid my wheelchair again”

Braeden Sagehorn was born and raised in Shelton, CT, but currently resides in West Haven, CT. He is attending the University of Connecticut School of Medicine as a first year medical student.