"The Pear I Give" & Other Poems


I was in fact.
Pretty light, cute
sun, up in
the adorable expanse.
Primetime doll
with the menstrual
smell. People clap
for me and about me.
The pear I give
is un-sexed, like a defunct
body type, smiling
producer of taste.
If anyone dreams
of you, that’s
Tongue and hand.
Sticky chin.
I was cleaning
my pride—really
buffing it. A quiz
could tell me
what I looked like,
with citations.
Tell me the difference
between “peel” and
“skin” because
I want to know, and
I sweat when I dream
of no one’s face.


Coming and going my
revelatory princess.
All that is holy
has been settled:
look, and not
neatly, at how
we wait together
and are satisfied.
My horoscope
is attached to me,
and when I look
down, it says:
“you have a love fetish.”
How personal,
as if every planet
were relevant, all of
them lined up, floating
cleanly in our own
window. I’m sure
that what I don’t
know is still
necessary, like
what a Capricorn is
or whomever said
love was fixed
and fixing.
We fill the waiting with
triangles turned
into plot: beginning,
middle, and end. Again.
Even sitting has
sense. I haven’t been
curious this season
of the two-faced
bitch. But we are
two women settled and
necessary, knowing
somewhere between
enough and it all,
not needing to shut
the blinds, but
look at me.
My attachments
know nothing
of what I’m
about to do.


Yes, I think it was
referencing a color:
green. Like any
good morning,
I cleared my throat
and stepped onto
the lawn. Nothing
puffy about that.
I’m serious when
I move under
the daytime moon.
Cradling store-
bought fish:
signal for what is
settled. There’s
a bird that flies and
dies by my window.
I won’t talk about
the grass stains on
my underwear.
The past is just that
sudden, even as I
stand in a morning
I respect—cool lawn,
trash can, how I’ve
done it on purpose,
invisible fences,
fire pit, turkey vultures
in the swamp
that will be a house,
too, one morning.
All’s well that ends
at the sink—dirty
spoons, my reference,
moon that could have been
a waste. It is always
a long night before and after
I have been convinced.

Jen Frantz

Jen Frantz currently works at a library in Ohio. Her work has been published in Prelude and Peach Mag, and is forthcoming in Ethel. Hopefully, her interest in the new Twilight installment is entirely ironic.

All contributions from Jen Frantz

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