Four Poems by George Franklin

Getting Away

The Long Trail up Vermont was all
Tree roots and mud. I had a raincoat,
A monk’s cowl made from plastic
The color of bricks. It covered
Everything, my backpack, legs,
Hair soaked with sweat, windblown
Rain. I was carrying too much weight.
The cans of tuna went first, the eggs
In their blue carton. Pasta and graham
Crackers didn’t weigh much. At night,
I used my flashlight for reading,
The Mayor of Casterbridge and
The Duino Elegies, both chosen
Almost at random—in the morning,
Oatmeal, instant coffee mixed with
Powdered milk and sugar. The shelters
Smelled of mice droppings and woodsmoke.
When I walked, I just looked at the ground,
Where to put my right boot, my left. I
Didn’t think about the apartment in
Cambridge, those fights that I never
Remembered afterwards, the uncertainty
About who I wanted to be, the shame that
Nothing mattered enough to claim me.
Outside of Bennington, there were stone
Steps leading down a mountain, one
Of those green hills ridging their way
Toward Canada. I hitchhiked into town
For dinner and a shower, then took out
All the stuff I’d brought along, extra
Clothes, camping gear, parmesan cheese—
Threw away whatever I didn’t need.

* 

Columbus Avenue

I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it
Sooner, that vague shape made up of
All the lives I could have had and
Didn’t choose and the one I did choose—
All asking for me to remember them.
In Manhattan, there were sidewalks
Where I passed couples having lunch
In the old Cuban-Chinese restaurants,
Banana omelets and avocados, wonton
Soup with corn, café con leche and flan.
I was walking back to work near
Lincoln Center, teaching Whitman and
Christina Rossetti to students retired
From years of hard labor in department
Stores and the garment district—their
Pasts overstuffed suitcases, cities
In Europe before the war, photographs
Of boys in buttoned suits, girls
In white dresses standing next
To their mothers, books in Hungarian
Or Polish. There was nothing I could
Teach them about poetry. Each
Was an epic, an Odyssey, but one
Where Odysseus never makes it
Back to Ithaca. He spends his life
In a foreign city where no one
Recognizes him. He eats Cuban-
Chinese congee instead of Greek
Avgolemono or a sheep roasted
On a spit and dreams in English
With a New York accent. Home
Was in poems they would probably
Never write. The epics wouldn’t
Be finished because that wasn’t
Something I knew how to teach.
I watched ballet dancers walk
Out of the studios in mid-afternoon
Sunlight, priests and priestesses of
A religion of the body, of movement—
There was a famous choreographer
Who limped badly, an old injury,
While the Chagall murals windowed
At the Met hung like a blue sky
Above tragedy. That was all forty
Years ago. Now, Cuban-Chinese places
Are returning to Manhattan—I saw
One on Amsterdam the other day. I don’t
Know what happened to my students, but
I doubt any are still alive. I divorced,
Married, and divorced again. Only
Christina Rossetti still sits in her room,
Writing, her heart breaking for a little love,
And patient Whitman still watches from
Brooklyn Ferry.

* 

When We First Met

When we first met, there was a café
Down the block from your building where I’d
Wait for you, drink coffee, then drink more,
And try to understand what love meant,
What we wanted when we kissed and held
Each other beneath the quilt in your
Bedroom, the light from the street slipping

Between your curtains, and our faces
Slowly growing visible, outlined
By pillows and desire. I’d drift off
Thinking about it, your white shoulder
Illuminated for a second
By that line of dim light, my lips pressed
Hard against your back. What I wanted

Then I couldn’t name, and I still can’t
Name. Desire is always incomplete—
It can’t be satisfied by skin pressed
To skin, by the body’s exhaustion.
I wanted to make you part of me,
Be part of you as well. I wanted
To disappear in you, utterly,

Then return as someone different,
Changed by you in a way I couldn’t
Change myself, become someone unknown
To me. Our lives before unravel,
A ball of string in a labyrinth,
A flash of light crossing the night sky.
They’re of no help to us. Whoever

We were with other people is not
Who we are now, knowing that hearts stop,
That bodies grow cold, insensible,
That we have this time and no other.
Or maybe we’ve been changed by desire
Itself, maybe desire is its own
Object, something we can’t express but

Can become. Tomorrow night, I’ll grill
Some fish and potatoes and green beans.
I’ll pick you up at the train station,
And I’ll sit in the car the way I
Used to sit in that café, thinking
About words we say to each other,
The warmth of your hand against my cheek.

*

After a Rain
            For Nathan Horowitz

It’s been raining all day, and now I’m tired.
I want to brush my teeth and stretch beneath
Dry, smooth sheets. The dog is sleeping
On his back on the couch I bought on sale
At Costco—an ugly, off-white color with nibs
That scratch at any exposed skin. But the dog

Loves it. I understand, sort of. There are old
Sweaters that make me feel good. I relax
When my shoulders slip into place, and my
Elbows bend the fabric exactly where
They should. I talked this evening with friends

From Maryland and New Mexico, New Hampshire
And Canada. No one feels relaxed or happy
With how their lives are slipping into place. We’re
All older—most protested Vietnam or the war
Reagan planned for Nicaragua and could only
Carry out in secret. The country then was less

“Compliant” and less used to … what?
Paramilitaries shooting our neighbors? One
Friend described poetry as “urgent thought”
And said that thought generates its own music.
I hope that’s true, but I’m afraid my urgency,

If not my thought, is lost in disappointment.
I was naïve, for sure. I wouldn’t have
Admitted it, but I believed in that “arc of history”
That “bends toward justice.” Now, every news
Website says the opposite. This afternoon, I read
Shelley for reassurance, not that everything would

Turn out well, but that we could still respond.
George III was certainly mad—forget his porphyria.
He probably thought the massacre of farmers
At Manchester was fit and just punishment for
Complaining. Somewhere, a prince-regent waits

For his cue. I wake the dog and take him for
A walk before I go to bed. The houses are
Dark. Worries about wars and presidents
Are not visible, and the next election is
Months away. In an apartment high rise
Across the street, someone is standing on

A balcony looking out. From up there, he—
I think it’s a man—can see the lights
Of the shopping center and the YMCA.
From up there, everything must look
Almost normal.

*

George Franklin is the author of eight poetry collections, including the recent A Man Made of Stories, and a book of essays, Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing (both Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025). Individual poems have been published in ONE ART, storySouth, The High Window, Solstice, Nimrod, Rattle, and New Ohio Review, among others. He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for Cagibi, teaches poetry classes in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez’s Último día/Last Day.