Worst thing about AWP:

Being in the hotel lobby at the same time as Chris Tonelli, both of us hoping to meet up, and missing each other because of my lame-ass cell phone.

Best thing about AWP:

Daddy Phase,

we say,
as the child slaps the bottle from my hand
but opens wide for Daddy,

Daddy Phase,
perfectly natural, just a stage,
as she calls for him upon waking,
Daddy Phase as he rises to her, tired but flattered,
pretending I’m the lucky one, inviting me to keep sleeping

as if I care to keep sleeping
on the stale white bread
of this marriage bed, Daddy Phase–

me, I’m a huge bland lawn jockey
and she, she is a perfect
size zero, gigging the tireless horse of her father
back and forth across the kitchen tile

I think she just pretends to be a baby

I would like to pitch a fit
when she ducks my kiss

my lips two fat hot dogs
cooling at the drive-thru,

but would she bother to notice?
Would she feel compelled to empathize?
No,
because she’s a BABY,
it’s a brilliant plan

A determined competitor, I
diversify my offerings

Have you seen this one? I ask her,

apparently she has

If only she still drank my milk
still drank my bloodwarm milk
then I could squeeze her, squeeze her, squeeze her

Oh, there were entire years before she existed,
years of the single fare, years of the road trip,
years of the fishnets and the fake ID,

the Doc Martens, the come-as-you-are,
the backpack, hipflask, do-not-disturb,

I used to be a restaurant hostess Oh I had the power then,
tapping a pencil on my bottom lip
or slipping it whisperingly down the waiting list,
the tips that I palmed,
the gents that I stacked like quarters on a pool table–
one crook of my long red nail,
how they would leap to my side

but now,
now we’re in the Daddy Phase

so now I remember
that each spring I’d discover
in the restaurant coat check room
some sad brown parka,
forgotten, forsaken–

so now I feel the elbows
of the empty wire hangers,
so now I hear them titter and hiss

–Beth Ann Fennelly

My name is Frank. I’m fifteen years old. I’m six-foot-six. I have been since I was nine. When I was seven, I was in a car accident. I had to have one hundred and seventy-four stitches in my forehead, cheek, and neck. Do you see where all of this is going? Yes, I am called “Frankenstein.” with great frequency. I have large hands. I have large feet and have worn large orthopedic shoes since kindergarten. The clunky black kind of orthopedic shoes. I used to want to be a country singer. Now I don’t know. I lost part of my tongue in the accident. I bit down on it. It came clean off. The police could not find it to reattach it. I sound a little funny now. I have accepted that I scare everyone else at school. I cried about it for a while and my parents made me see a therapist. The therapist had trouble understanding me. I would tell her, “Everyone thinks I should be a monster.” She would say, “It’s those other kids who are monsters.” I know she is right. I wouldn’t mind being their kind of monster: pretty, or suave, cunning. Even just able to stand up straight. I would be a vampire, a werewolf. I would be the creature from the black lagoon.