Jen Frantz

The Stems

Still a fact
can be noxious.
I drew myself:
over sinks, long,
as if I were a word,
and the word
was a command, and
the command was
“hold!” I chose red
to start. Sunset, rock
formation, posing
stranger—my mother
says it could be art.
High note, too cold.
All pop songs are
about growing
faster than
your hat.
Air and air,
crickets,
Freddie Mercury.
I’ll allow anyone
to tell me what
heaven is, as long
as it’s not a slow song.
In my finished
drawing, I am
clear—one line
throwing lipstick
into the bathtub,
while another
hurries to
the damage.
I didn’t ride into
the sunset only
to learn that
characters
have done it
before me, all while
they held my young body,
my little dream and
anthem. I didn’t
want to learn
how to read.
Today I bought a new
hat—nothing to forgive,
except high points.
Again, an unsteady hand.
When my mother found
the flowers in the trash,
she held them like
they were only
sleeping. Stems cut
and dripping, wild
before death or song—
fact of a picture, please
hand them to me, so
I can hold them just
as you do, in our
pajamas, grateful
and writing it down.
I have circled
my proudest
moment enough.

Baby, It’s Cold Inside

I am soiled in
a growing way.

Things grow from
shit, I say, and

keep saying
until I am

the calmest adult
spreading her legs

for chairs, waking
next to a fork

that does me
kindness. Inside

everyone, there is
an animal learning

to walk on its
hind legs. And it is

a fish with no
business here.

Not at my meal,
with butter knives

and serving spoons
that I have kissed

responsibly.
How precious

I feel with
something sloppy

inside me, on land
for the first time.

Thrashing like
it was my fault.

When I sleep,
I dream, and

I dream of a field,
and the field is

shit. I really can’t
stay, and I really

can’t grow. Baby,
it’s cold inside.