Once my sister stopped eating


Small wagon


There was a place in the neighborhood called Silence-Heart-Nest

Sweet milky rice


Sometimes I walk so far for so long that the chalk in my mouth changes to metal


I make a baby and shoot it with my sorrow arrow




Out in the world there's another world, hesitating


Woman with a visor


Man covered in puke


Baby eating milk


Out of me come barnacles


The sky shitting its soft hope


There are stretch marks on my past


Can I say that?


There's a person you see


On the beach


God or another stranger


You sit on a log


What's sadder than a car


At the beach


A car parked



When I feel like dying I go to bed


When I stick my hand in the death flower it holds


Turn off that music


I name the bear "Bear" and the blanket "Blanket"


I wish you didn't have so many small people on your face



You write the same dirge every day 


You eat a snake


Grass grows around her and you light it


People run up to the heart bulb


Sometimes you want to come home 


Wreath of black burned grass


I had a man like that


Every day I walked the pond just a ways from the overpass


Moving toward and within parallel lines


If I can just stay one current away 


Glass of ice


Uselessly I entered him


We use people as paper cups


Write in pen


Make it sad so it won't come near again


Emily Kendal Frey is the author of The Grief Performance (published by Cleveland State University Poetry Center in 2011) as well as several

chapbooks and chapbook collaborations. She lives in Portland, Oregon, where she hosts the New Privacy series.