A poem by Emily Kendal Frey

PEOPLE WILL LIKE YOU IF YOU LIKE THEM FIRST

 

 

I make you pork

.

Pork tenderloin

.

Herbs on the outside

.

I let it rest

.

Blood drips out

.

I make more pork

.

I know you like it

.

What do you like

.

I make it

.

A bike

.

A jacket

.

A belief in facts

.

Here are the facts

.

This is a pig

.

Its snout

.

It may have dreams

.

It was born, grew

.

Here is the piece of meat

.

For you

.

A salad with sassy tomatoes

.

More meat

.

Here is a holiday

.

Here is rest, no work

.

Here are clouds

.

The moon

.

A goddess

.

A voice singing

.

In another room

.

I make you eggs

.

I slice berries

 .

I make coffee

. 

We go

.

To a new place

 .

We roam around the morning

 .

Ideas in our minds

.

This is art, this is

.

The day on an axis

.

Oh, we think, it is good

.

To think in this room with you

. 

To know what’s underneath

 .

Your shirt

.

The meat

.

To the mouth

 .

To the mind

 .

To the morning

 .

To the breast

.

To pants

 .

And back

 .

I build a door

.

Of pork 2x4s

.

A pork house

 .

A pork fire pit

.

A pork book

.

A book that engages

.

A book that lasts

.

I can understand

.

The problem now

.

I can see it

 .

Like veins in a chest

 .

I know why people choose

.

What they do

.

Pork potholder

 .

Pork mom

 .

Driving down the street

 .

The chestnut trees

. 

I know why the neighbor

 .

Has lame shrimp appetizers

.

Why she plays

 .

That music and invites

.

The landlord

. 

Who she is

 .

In her car

 .

In the world

 .

I understand

. 

Pork

 .

We are lost

 .

From ourselves

. 

No love hangs

 .

On hooks

.

In our chests

.

I listen for the bell

 .

The baby rattle

. 

Pork baby

. 

Pork lawnmower

. 

They loved us the best

. 

They could

. 

Everyone did

. 

In the mud

. 

And under it

. 

Meat of what isn’t

.

Meat of what is

 

.

//

 

 

We go on a date

 

In a pork canoe

 

Pork cake

 

You have arms

 

I see them

 

The sun on you

 

Pork face

 

I make a lake

 

I make a bug

 

To bite your legs

 

Love isn’t lack

 

Of distance, it’s depth

 

Pork headdress

 

When I see us

 

All so lonely

 

Pounding the Internet

 

I make more

 

I make a special dish

 

It can be used as fabric

 

For a tent

 

It’s three lesser-known seas

 

It is captioned

 

I make it not too

 

Salty, not too hot

 

It molds to your body

 

In the night

 

It is comfy

 

I make it from the vibrating

 

Valley within me

 

 

//

 

 

You can take a person with you

 

Up the September road

 

And into the trees

 

It will be awkward

 

As the world does its

 

Dying but you can

 

Resist, not curl

 

Or wither, you can say

 

Baby what do you want

 

I’m a flawed protagonist

 

When I look from a window

 

The lawn has shit on it

 

Baby be gentle

 

We are all

 

So afraid

 

Of love

 

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 Norma Farber First Book Award from The Poetry Society of America in 2012. Her second collection, SORROW ARROW, is available now from Octopus Books.