“Drawing Mannequin,” Poetry by Julia Franklin

Drawing Mannequin 
 
Mischief in monochrome. 
Subtle sidekick, sleek home of souls. 
Cold conjuror, no-face freedom. 
No life out of reach.  
 
 
 
 
The Pasta Hour 
 
Late walk, 
home again. 
Dark sky above, 
weak legs beneath. 
 
Fifteen-minute era 
of Waiting, 
Watching, 
and Stirring . . .
 
To be rewarded 
with chewy-salty 
Victory, 
butter-cheese-fork 
Relief, 
calorie-laden 
Defiance, 
primal-unconditional 
Devotion.  
 
 


The Fire 
 
I come 
not from one house, 
but three. 
 
House Number One 
was festive, 
dependable, 
full of sweet dreams 
and hypotheticals 
that I shrugged off. 
 
House Number Two 
was empty, 
frigid and aloof, 
stripped to its skeleton, 
and infected with smoke. 
 
House Number Three 
was recuperating 
in the balm of springtime 
and accepting, 
sheepishly, 
the cardboard boxes 
that held its Number One face. 
 
 
 
 
Winter Body 
 
It’s 4:30 
in December. 
 
Our heads are 
full of clouds. 
 
Our limbs are 
collecting 
the sky’s iron.  
 
Only now 
can we drift 
while PLODding. 
 
A crowbar 
for my sagging eyelids, 
if you please. 
 
The mighty Apathy 
bears us each 
 
an exoskeleton 
in place 
of a drive. 
 
 

 
Mother Bear 
 
I used to bury my eyes 
in blind, piggish books. 
I heard you were 
in the index under “C” (for “child”) 
and that the numbered diagrams 
were like “Where’s Waldo?” 
But, of course, 
you (the one, the only) 
were nowhere to be found. 
So my cockeyed bliss 
handed in its badge. 
Mystery hardened around my head. 
Unknowns built a nest inside me. 
Time passed, 
now I live inside the nest. 
Together we writhe, 
you, the unknowns, and I. 
The current is its own beast. 
You ask me why I swim, 
what joined our ankles, 
what made your victories mine. 
Simply put, 
my map needs your footprints. 
Wild you are, proud, 
the last of your kind. 
I swim for your earth and air, 
for your feet and wings. 
I swim for you to choose, 
for us to win. 
  
 
 
 
The Exchange 
 
You 
raised your voice, 
I 
raised an eyebrow. 
 
You 
burned my library, 
I 
combed your archives. 
 
You 
rummaged in your trick-bag, 
I 
waited. 
Arms akimbo. 
 
You 
turned one last forlorn look on me . . . 
I 
smiled. 
I 
boxed you up. 
I 
kicked you down the stairs.  
 

***

Julia Franklin was born in Cambridge, England, and has had a passion for writing, drawing, and traveling from a tender age. Now a grad student at Oakland University, she plans to one day teach elementary education and imbue her students with a love of the arts. She lives with her parents, brother, and lop-eared rabbit.  This is her second feature on The Fictional Café. You can read her first here.