B says all longing is spiritual longing
And I believe him. I look
At his face, its carved
Boat of father,
Bridge over water.
I use the sharpest
Scissors to trim hair. Can you
Stay with me, see where
This ends? You don’t have to
Like it, you may even
Chew the hate-chalk.
You might believe this
To be a torn flower,
Shit brown,
An animal urge to kill or maul
Might rise up and then your own
Father or mother or person
You loved, smeared
Along a line. And now what.
We don’t know why
The cord thickens
To a root and in the morning
We can’t move.
I loved
A person and
They left. I carry
The bag of lemons.
I long for what’s
Not yet. When I sleep the gods
Come in and arrange
My hair. My mom is not
There and neither is my dad.
I wake and make myself
A woman, barely.
I know there’s
More for me to give
Up. If I couldn’t
See you, you would
Still be there.
Emily Kendal Frey lives in Portland, Oregon. She is the author of several chapbooks and chapbook collaborations, including FRANCES, AIRPORT, BAGUETTE, and THE NEW PLANET. THE GRIEF PERFORMANCE, her first full-length collection, won the Norman Farber First Book Award from The Poetry Society of America in 2012. Her second collection, SORROW ARROW, is available now from Octopus Books.
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