Frey 1 A Dark Moth on a White Ceiling Wings folded An arrow pointing I swat it from its perch and it falls

into my bed where I sift through lavender sheets and shake out two pillows no moth, no arrow. Lying down, I become a slimy, sweat-dream soup woven into a silk cocoon until I shrug my wings to strip weak threads; I press my head up through the split dome-case of unraveled silk fibers, emerge over a pattering brook. Upside down, I cling to a branch and stare into my new reflection, admiring compound eyes, flirty wings batting open like lashes after a long sleep and my coiled proboscis; I reach out to pet a feathery antenna. I am the moth, a large arrow pointing, spreading massive wings, beating a dust-storm of scales and hair, flying toward a waxing moon. My shin tickles then stops, tickles then stops; I flip on a lamp and kick off my sheets: Hello, friend, fuzzy body, folded wings flutters, skitters amongst my covers.

Frey 2 My Godfathers Funeral When my mother bent down with wet eyes and told me you were dead, I was four. A red carpet ran like a spine to the altar, to the black casket lined with cream satin. The pews loomed, oak ribs inhale the congregation. I was too small to see so your son wrapped his nine-year-old arms around my waist, hoisted me up. My fingers grasped the coffin rail. I saw you sleeping, hair neatly parted, lips like stone, smiling. I smiled back. Your cheeks were sunken, hands clenched. I could see every bone. Your son set me back on my feet and hand-in-hand, the three of us, wandered back to our parents. I was waiting for you to wake up.

After they buried you I asked my mother when youd wake up. Never, she said, and I cried.

Frey 3 Teesha, Age Five I remember you swinging in our backyard that summer pink fingers grasping rubber wound round pinching chains, how you narrowed your eyes and took a deep breath on the scarlet seat, prepared for take-off: the way you pumped your legs, higher and higher until you could touch cotton clouds; Mickey Mouse t-shirt, worn blue overalls (hand-me-downs) with silver clasps and buttons winking in the sticky sun. Golden hair, the backward breeze puffing locks over flushed cheeks, and how, when you swung forward, the strands blew back; blue eyes, toothy smile. Our swings dangle, collecting the seasons But we never really left them behind.

Frey 4 Heavens Landscape An ocean of mountains, Cloud cliffs, canyons. A white desert sky with the sun beating down on a pale, wrinkled back. The sun an angry eye. Bundles of vapor curl around the wing; the blade slices clouds into a million drops. White forest below me, invisible trunks under thick Cumulus, white, lavender, smog. I peer through the cabin windows cool glass. Now, Im sitting on the wing With the wind in my face And I wonder: where are all the angels?

Frey 5 Nothing Two young girls twirl polka-dot umbrellas and skip in the drizzle. One dressed in a pink coat tugs the yellow sleeve of the other. They stop at a shallow puddle, and crouch down. A frog leaps out. They scream, run away, return to skipping. Their polka-dot umbrellas twirl in the rain. Let me be calm when theres nothing to write about but nothing.

Frey 6 Shedding After Ruben Dario White strands float all over the room buoyant or dizzy In dim light or bright light By the television or under laptop keys White fibers float into mouths and up noses Into strawberry yogurt, pizza slices, Spaghettios Through microwaves or ovens White threads stalk all these places A dog scratches in the house On the rough cinnamon-amber carpet Into the ventilation system On a black metal futon, sag-bent in the center she stretches her back leg behind her tall ear On a velvet, foam-filled rug beside the shower Into discarded clothes and clean, hanging towels In cars headed to the dog park On rear and passenger seats and floors Over fresh pillow cases and the blankets On unmade beds. She sheds by shaking out her silky body Or rubbing herself on idle or passing legs With black suit-pants Or the strands simply fall off in tufts She raises her leg to a spot above her shoulder And perpetually strums her nails through the pelt Her hock beats a steady rhythm on the linoleum floor to blow the coat of summer season is why she scratches.

Frey 7 A Wasp Flies Into a window, Collapses Upside-down On the sill, Flips himself Off his back A fast turtle. Wriggles, Flexes wings Flight-gearcheck Smooths antenna Rubs furry face Rubs furry face Smooths antennacheck He shakes Shakes off Humiliation Pride Waves a stinger Stretches wings Bends knees Lifts off. She has overcome What she did not perceive An invisible obstacle, An accident, Death. Sometimes life offers us similar obstacles.

Frey 8 Listening to Spanish in a Public Restroom Rapido! Mamas ready to get home An angry toilet-monster howls Mammi, cries the girl, Ayudame! Flaca is her name, Because Mama never took fat girls with her shopping. Youre old enough to do things for yourself. I hear my own mother: Grow up and act your age. A boy slinks by, peering through cracks between stalls Hes too old for the Ladies room. Faucet nozzles squeak and sink water roars, Paper towels thunder and dryers rumble. The commotion is enough to give everyone a headache. Im finished and washed, Rushing to leave; the mother urges her daughter move faster. I slip past the line of waiting women, Push through the heavy red bathroom door And inhale a breath of peaceful Target air. Did you hear that, Mom? That woman was your twin.

Frey 9 In a Plane Bound for Minneapolis A Texas cowboy stows his hat and buckles into a seat next to his wailing four-year-old daughter. I roll my eyesher mouth is wide, eyes streaming. My father would never allow public crying and private tears were meant to be shed in the dark, under blankets. Staring through the space between their seats: the part where the arm-rest fits: I glare at her pink and purple Velcro sandals I wear sweat-soaked socks hidden under long jeans, shoes with laces because I represent United Airlines. Across the aisle, the cowboys wife looks nothing like a cowgirl in her faded 90s jeans and Nikes. She slips off a loaded fanny and crams it into the seat pocket overflowing with boring airline magazines. Who wears fanny packs anymore? Theyre ugly, outdated and clunky my mother owned one about eleven years ago. I glance at my teal Coach purse, thankful my mother never bought me one of those horrendous fannies. Beside me, Another girl tugs a purple ballerina blanket from her backpack, kicks off worn tennis shoes shredded laces still tied and yanks the throw over her head. I glance back and forth between her mother and father, waiting to hear them scold her for messing up her tidy hair, but in five minutes, the girl snores her socked foot hanging out to trip people through the aisle. Ill have children;

Frey 10 theyll be more considerate Ill become my mother.

Frey 11 We Are Critical Of our bodies Walking toward large windows, Reflections, Critiquing everything: Short legs, knobby knees Gait weighted unevenly. In mirrors we fuss Over sagging eyes, smile lines High foreheads. We pluck, ogle, and desire Long lashes, straight teeth Button noses, hourglass shapes Censuring the rest: Uneven eyebrows, oily skin Thin hair, bowed shins. We wish we talked the way she talks Twinkling chimes kissing in the wind We want to walk the way she walks A graceful ballerina light on her toes Her hair tumbles in the wind As soft warm waves on cool autumn day. Were constantly tortured by Vanity But she feeds on all our If-Onlys.

Frey 12 English Major Two semesters and thirty-six credits, Thirty-six credits and a part-time job. Papers, vodka, ramen noodles, Dozens of novels, partially read, Two semesters and thirty-six credits, Thirty-six credits and a part-time job. Fingertips flitting over smooth laptop keys, Scrambling to write ten-page analyses. Hawthorne and his Damned Scribbling Mob, Bleak House by Dickens and a part-time job. Two semesters and thirty-six credits, Thirty-six credits and a part-time job. Prayers to God daily and Sunday night Mass, Greasy-haired Mondays and Tuesday night baths; Two semesters and thirty-six credits, Thirty-six credits and a part-time job. Netflix, group projects, pizza, and As, Paychecks spent before getting paid. Two semesters and thirty-six credits, Thirty-six credits and a part-time job.