I mean, I believe
in closer space.
Viewers everywhere
look into the sky,
which remains part
bubble, part finger,
pointing toward
the clean and squat,
if that’s how you
would have it.
The little green men
arrive shrugging:
that’s a house; that’s
a man talking about
a house, sprinkler
pointing in
the wrong direction;
that’s a dog—bark
and wag—we’ve all
been seen, says some
voiceover, becoming
delicate. The little
green men want
a three-tiered cake
and a carousel.
They want to eat
with their hands
and ride in circles
with the big lights
and the people
watching, asking
“this is the secret?”
Dad, you won’t
believe who didn’t
build the pyramids.
The finger in
the sky bubbles and
reaches for how
you would have it,
closest viewer
to space, loving
any void that
gestures for you.



Area 51

by Jen Frantz

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Jen Frantz

Jen Frantz currently works at a library in Ohio. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Prelude, Sporklet, and Washington Square Review. You can find her @frantzophone. 

Payment can be given at @Jen-Frantz on Venmo