George Franklin
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George Franklin practices law in Miami. Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing is forthcoming from SheilaNa-Gig Editions in January2025. Remote Cities is his third full-length poetry collection with Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, complementing Noise of the World (2020) and Traveling for No Good Reason (winner of the Sheila-Na-Gig Editions manuscript competition in 2018). He has also authored the dual-language collection, Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (translated by Ximena Gómez and published by Katakana Editores, 2020), and a chapbook, Travels of the Angel of Sorrow (Blue Cedar Press, 2020). He is the co-translator, along with the author, of Ximena Gómez’s Último día / Last Day and co-author with Gómez of Conversaciones sobre agua / Conversations About Water (Katakana Editores 2019 & 2023).
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Faustus and Margarete
When Margarete appeared, Faustus was surprised.
This was not one of the big moments. Mephistopheles
Was not dragging him off to hell, and the angels
Were not interceding for his soul. He was at dinner,
A small taberna in Madrid, about to begin dessert,
Tarte de “la leche,” when he recognized her voice,
Asking if he’d added gluttony to his sins. He admitted
He had and asked her to join him. He didn’t worry
Much that last he’d seen her she was ascending
To heaven and distinctly leaving him behind. Instead,
He inquired how long she’d been in Spain and would
She like a glass of the excellent wine he was drinking.
He wished he could remember the name of the grape,
But he hadn’t paid attention. Uncharacteristically,
She said yes, and he asked the owner’s daughter to
Bring over another glass. Already, her eyes disturbed him.
He remembered how annoying innocence is. When
Helen looked at him, she saw all his failings and either
Accepted them or told him she had better things to do.
When you’ve seen Troy burnt to ash and the inhabitants
Treated the way you’d expect Agamemnon’s troops
To treat them, it gives, as she puts it, a sense of perspective.
His sins are personal and don’t count for much. Margarete,
Though, was always disappointed. She expected
Repentance, not dessert. He didn’t apologize, but offered
To show her the Prado and let drop a few names of artists
He’d known. There was that balloon that Goya painted
Floating above the hills, clouds, and horseback riders. Did
She know he was one of the figures in the balloon?
She was unimpressed, but they left together, walking
Through a closed market and a square with bars
Only now starting to fill up. He wanted to point out
Constellations, but the city lights made it difficult.
She wanted to find a church that was open. He didn’t.
They compromised and found a bookstore that
Served coffee. She hadn’t expected, she said, to save him,
But she thought there might be something redeeming
After all this time. He confessed that there wasn’t,
And she—disappointed—began to grow transparent,
Then vanished altogether. Faustus was sad. She always
Left him sad. He’d wanted to take her back to that
Hotel room with its enormous bed and clean
White sheets, to make love and have hot chocolate
And churros for breakfast. He was angry that now
It would never happen. He decided to walk it off—
Which usually worked—when turning a corner,
He noticed a certain black dog, not unlike the one
Goya had painted, following him, cautiously,
At a distance. Mephistopheles always knew
Better than to gloat.
Faustus in Sevilla
They were sitting outside at a café across from
Las Setas when Faustus reminded Mephistopheles
Of the heretics in pointed dunce caps that Goya painted
Two hundred years before, the inquisitors in their white wigs,
Furiously writing confessions. Mephistopheles grimaced.
He’d just taken a forkful of tortilla with whiskey sauce,
But he put it down to reply. It’s difficult, he said,
To know which souls deserve damnation. Your species
Seems to love rules and produces so many small men
Who are obsessed with the transgressions of others.
I do not have to explain the irony to you. Faustus
Sipped some brandy, smiled, and asked—for argument’s sake—
Whether those cataloguers of sin weren’t just aping
Angels and demons, who’d been doing the same since
The creation. M nodded his well-groomed head.
We’ve known each other too long for pretense. It’s
What your Helen would dismiss as foolishness.
The Son of Morning was tossed down from heaven
Because he asked, “How do I know you created me
If I don’t remember it?” The heretics whose shoulders
And hips were torn on the rack—to us they are martyrs,
Not because they believed—most of the time, they didn’t—
But because their torturers believed. His voice dropped.
They tortured in order to believe. Faustus put his hand
On Mephistopheles’s arm. He wanted to say something
Cheerful, but he couldn’t. It was already evening,
The stores were closing, and the drivers had turned on
Their headlights. From the belltowers, they would
Look like fireflies in a dark field.
