Looking out the window in your living room,
I can see a late-night traffic jam in Wynwood, a line
Of red lights going nowhere, in the distance
Office buildings, a mural illuminated and silent.
We’ve stayed here on weekends for seven years now.
Everything has changed, and nothing has changed.
The neighborhood is more upscale than it was.
Sometimes, there will still be panhandlers in
The parking lot at the supermarket, but the new
Buildings going up are luxury condos with
Doormen out front, yoga classes in the gym.
The Brazilian restaurant with appetizers and good
Wine closed during the pandemic. When it
Reopened it was a Peruvian fast-food joint where
Everything came out of the freezer. We ate there
Once and never went back. Now, we make our own
Bread and eat sandwiches on Saturdays. Tomatoes
Ripen on the dining-room table. For seven years,
We’ve held each other at night, sometimes lightly,
Sometimes so close it feels like we’re trying to push
Inside each other’s skin, pillows, blankets falling
To the floor. Me encanta estar en cama contigo.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve said it
Or how many nights we’ve spent like this. We
Both know how fragile it all is, how deep inside,
A cell could be dividing recklessly or a small
Clot of blood could be moving to the brain.
Love won’t protect us from that—or anything else.
I peel a naval orange and ask if you’d like half.
They’re good this time of year.
George Franklin is the author of seven poetry collections, including What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. Individual poems have been published in SoFloPoJo, Another Chicago Magazine, Rattle, Black Coffee Review, New York Quarterly, and Cultural Daily. He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for Cagibi, teaches poetry workshops in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez's Último día/Last Day. In 2023, he was the first prize winner of the W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize. His website: https://gsfranklin.com/.