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.

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