Sobremesa
George Franklin
The dinner finished, the wine bottle
Still not empty, termite nymphs circling
The overhead lamps, the glass door
To the patio opaque, reflecting
Faint images of ourselves, a few
Moths, one of those Dutch interiors
But without a ray of light entering
Through a window—
We are shadows of our own
Reflections. We stare at our empty
Plates, at leftovers on the table,
But only because we need some place
To rest our eyes. The vases
Above the cabinet wait for us
To resume conversation, stories
About politics or the private affections
Of not-so-famous authors. We
Disappoint them. Safe from dust,
The fluted Bohemian
Goblets tremble a little next
To the porcelain, and the rose-glass
Fingerbowls stand awkwardly on each
Other’s shoulders. My mother would
Only put them out for holidays, and
Now, they may resent as parvenues
The vodka glasses I purchased in Italy.
Regardless, none of them have been
Used in years. Why do I keep them still,
Like the books from my grandfather’s
Library, pages barely held together,
Unreadable but still wedged, sentries,
On the highest shelf? If they have
A place in my life, I don’t know
What it is. There’s a portrait of
My grandmother and my mother,
Who’d insisted her doll be painted
As well. The painter, Louis Betts,
Tossed her in, stiff-armed, with
A minimum of strokes. It makes me
Smile to imagine his pique. He’d
Come all the way from Chicago.
This was before the Depression,
Before the house was sold, and
The chauffeur let go. Now, it
Doesn’t matter. My mother’s
Been dead for almost thirty years,
And whatever she hoped for me
Doesn’t matter either. I tell you
How, if I were younger, I might
Start all over, in another country,
Maybe even another language.
Why have I carried with me all
These books and paintings, the china
I’ve never used, the linen tablecloths
Taking up room in the closet, too
Big to fit my table? There’s a
Daguerreotype of my great-grandfather,
Printed on copper. I only know
A few stories about him—he wanted
His children to be educated, he owned
A store, he refused to allow German
To be spoken in his house and had
Left Alsace to avoid the Prussian army.
Maybe there’s a genetic desire to be
Somewhere else or someone else. Maybe
There’s also an antithetical desire
To hold on to curios, books, gilt-edged
Cups, to find a home in objects and
Memories. You tell me about a silver
Tray with your parents’ initials—you
Brought it with you in a suitcase
From Colombia. I think about your
Apartment in Miami, how you made it
So separate from the world outside.
We are already somewhere else, already
Someone else. The home we make
For each other has nothing to do
With objects and memories, with cities
On a map, or streets lined with mailboxes
And driveways, or the walks we’ve taken
Late at night by the canal, or the mall’s
Empty parking lot. The home we make
Is here at this table, in the stories we’ve
Told and probably repeated, in the way
Our hands touch involuntarily as we talk,
How we look at each other as we carry
The leftovers to the refrigerator and
Our dishes out to the sink.
GEORGE FRANKLIN is the author of seven poetry collections, including What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused. He practices law in Miami, teaches poetry workshops in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez's Último día/Last Day. In 2023, he was awarded the W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize.