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Chloe Frailley Poem
Sat in rows dressed for summer, we convene to talk about winter and death. There are four screens in the room.
one in front
left right
and behind
that/reflect my face and body. I feel like an angry dog, wishing, anxious, snarling, wanting to claw at the animal. In the tomb of my ancestors, carefully collecting pieces of cream porous bone to dash out my brains, asleep and awake and dreaming—a staircase, with its finality!— The spirits that track scum within my veins (The professor says that Loneliness creates Weight) are restless and full of impure intention. Relieve me of dogs, winters, ghosts. Let me catch myself upon the concrete wall and maybe I could grasp what it is I’m supposed to be thinking about. Anchor me against the day, forlorn with torn, torn nails. It were
as if my plastic chair was wood
and the ground before me scattered with
locks of a girl’s hair, every few seconds
I am executed. My brains fried
beneath the metal dome, cold
and shining like the hand of God.
Twitching, extending outward, I
release
foam from my mouth
wishing to feed someone’s children
baby, baby birds. My executioner
asks again if I had something to say,
and always, I will say
continue.
Copyright © Chloe Frailley | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Chloe Frailley Poem
Dust shrouds the peeling varnish on the old church pew as Noah
(first of his namesake, last of his namesake) thumbs an overripe
orange in his patchwork coat pocket. The preacher, made an obelisk
by distance and light looms against the marble cross, stark
fragmented, like bullet holes through white fencing.
He speaks.
“Every Living Thing Has A Soul And Should Be Treated As Such.”
Noah knows not of this. He knows of the orange in his patchwork coat pocket
and the preacher, made an obelisk by distance and li—
His mother pulls him outside of himself, her firm hand guiding his awkward steps.
Noah was to go fishing with his father this afternoon.
The riverbank slants downward, the red clay retreating from Noah’s newly
polished Church shoes. Silence is expanded upon by his Father, who kills
the worm, contorted, tied, twisted, and fitfully impaled to be sacrificed (For Lunch).
Noah knows not of this. He knows of his mother, her firm hand guiding,
the riverbank slanting downwa—
“Paw is it true these worms got souls?” / Yes, Son”
“Why’re we killin’ ‘em? / We’ve got to eat”
“Can’t we eat without killin’? / You want to eat a live fish?”
“Can we eat somethin’ else? / If we were richer”
“Won’t we go to hell for killin’? / Some killing has to happen”
“If we were rich, would we have to kill? / Probably not, Son”
“Do only the rich go to heaven?”
Noah’s father did not say this, but this is what he understood.
The rich build their heaven on earth out of precious metals
And fleeting pride, but heaven can only be found
in death
and in death, the worms you killed,
the fish you ate, the woman you love,
the brother you fought, and the sun you worship
will run
to greet
you like
your child
the morning
of your birthday.
Copyright © Chloe Frailley | Year Posted 2025
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