five poems
by Fran Schumer
F is for Franklin
I hate Franklin.
I hate arguing with Franklin, talking with Franklin —
talking is arguing with Franklin.
I never want to see Franklin again.
Untrue: I love Franklin.
I love Franklin more than life.
Without Franklin, there is no life.
I have no life, no self.
Also untrue: I have a better self,
a happier, healthier, better behaved self.
And yet, nothing excites, titillates, enlivens me
as much as the prospect of seeing Franklin.
When Franklin left, the screen went blank,
the earth flattened, sucked all noise out of the house.
It was so quiet without him, like death. I died.
And now after all these years, I've changed.
The body doesn’t lie.
I have less control over my stomach
than I do over my thoughts,
and my stomach rebels, refluxes,
upsurges at the prospect.
We will see Franklin Saturday night at the party.
My stomach will issue a warning.
It will flash in bold, red neon letters:
Accident Ahead. Plan Alternate Route.
Worth
To sink into a poem or story -- even Netflix --as deeply as I sink into the saggy cushions of my big, old couch, so comfortable I hope they’ll bury me on it.
To share a sandwich with you, a sandwich with a rich filling,
and talk about nothing.
Sometimes, just to get through the day has worth.
To tell a person I fear how I really feel because I know somewhere amid my fears it will land; he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll never remember that I said this, but I will remember that I did.
To spend a lot of money on a really good bike, and more money to take care of it.
To kiss it, take it into the garage, and not, as I wanted after I first bought it, to take it into bed with me. Who sleeps with her bike?
To tell this to my husband, to hear him laugh, groan when I make a mistake, the same mistake, interrupt, speak over everyone, argue not to make a point but to make the other person feel terrible like I was once made to feel. To stop doing that has worth.
To struggle to create something. To create something is such hard work. Hard work has worth. Don’t you wish it didn’t?
To see a friend with important things to do rake her leaves and realize I have time to rake my leaves, too.
To rake my leaves, to feel my blood flow, my body warm, my brain release endorphins that bind to opioid receptors that block pain. So what if it is all chemical? It feels good. It feels good to feel my mother’s still warm hands in mine, though she’s half dead, a ghost. To sit by my mother and feel her breath slow, her body relax. To be a better daughter than I was has worth.
Even to feel pain has worth.
Two Days Dead
In the coffin, head leaned back.
What if you aren’t dead?
Now every place I go where you were
you are, but dead.
I can’t live in those places again.
They won’t be the same.
Does your stubble still grow?
Your nails?
Your heart has stopped,
for now, mine too.
Washing Dishes
Old age is when you realize
your life has already happened,
all those chores, washing dishes,
you wish more than anything
you could redo each faux pas,
the time you smeared sunscreen
on his face and did such a bad job –
you were in such a rush --
the red, rough burn on his face
the exact shape of your hand.
Winston Salem
-- home of R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Co.
It was late October
when the plane landed
in fields of it,
the town named
for its most famous product,
the scent of the leaves,
floral and soothing,
seductive like honey,
like whisky.
On someone’s rickety porch
I flip open my first beer --
the thrill of the cold metal,
the satisfying whoosh
of foam erupting -- .
I light my first cigarette
and know
this is how I want to feel
the rest of my life.
Photo of Fran Schumer
BIO: Fran Schumer’s poetry has appeared in A Hole in The Head Review, The New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, Ethel, and many other publications. She won a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York and in 2021, a Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing poetry fellowship. Her Chapbook, Weight, was published in 2022. A native of Brooklyn, N.Y., she currently lives on Martha’s Vineyard. www.franschumer.com