Three Poems | Jen Frantz

Why Fred Sandback Makes Me Cry

 “It is an art of objects without any shadows.”

• Andrea Fraser, “Why Fred Sandback Makes Me Cry”

In a room that doesn’t

cast, cast me.

I have been new

to art; perhaps

I am gentle.

This is my first

mouth. This is

also my first

claim. The room

has been built

like a friend

without you.

Little long and

taut, there’s

so much

to suggest:

clean space,

doorways,

enough.

I wanted to cry

and did not—

no host for​​ 

the heavy.

Just standing in​​ 

this world​​ 

is a reciprocation.​​ 

Motivational Poster

Dream big, they have said.​​ 

Like fuss astronauts.

I’ve already been

to the starry night

and back—the moon?

She had a thumb.

The sky’s diamond?

Alone, I left it alone.

I cannot convey to you

purpose, as I felt it

then, forgetting about

my laundry, even

my most hungry

failures, and wanting

to recover my size,

my smallness, just

to say some simple,​​ 

helpful thing.

The keys are

on the table, or

you look so dignified

in purple.​​ 

I love the word

“strewn” and

I’ll use it now

when you ask,

as you always do,

where everything was.

Manic Pixie Nightmare

I have an unfeeling—

it starts with a man

in the bright no more,

having ideas for wallpaper:

stripes,​​ he says, and ships,

modern love in the kitchen

of his tapping foot.

He is mildly to severely​​ 

impressed: I have known

stripes and ships.

I can name the things

I’ve seen. Water and

people, swimmers

and pleasure.

There are, truly, bodies

outside the house.

I’ve never felt

this way before, he says

when I mention

a goose egg wall.

It was almost like

going outside.

You’ve taught me

so much, he says,

and now I can ride​​ 

my bike endlessly

into no surprise.

I return to things

I’ve seen and count them—

I am, of course,​​ 

in the credits,

my room the wrong

shade of yellow,

drooping towards me

in admiration.​​