It was like swimming backstroke,
grey clouds ahead, relentless rain
behind. In short, she was stuck.
Deep dark voices in her head said
stick the deed in the ego stockpot,
let it simmer along with carrots
of conscience, onions of blame.
There’s nothing to be gained
by tormenting yourself.
Just observe it and leave it
until the choppy waves
in your mind settle –
then let it go.
The Pool – Apache
(After the 1906 photograph by Edward S. Curtis)
The hush of sycamores in the heart
of the forest is ruffled by wing beats
of a hawk and chatter of chipmunks.
He stands in a breechcloth, bare-chested
and barefoot at the pool’s edge.
A warrior, a hunter.
The stones he stands on are thou.
The trees and sedge behind him are thou.
The water and the trout are thou.
All natural objects have souls –
his reflection in the pool
echoes in unison.
How could he know
the white man’s coming
would put the it in everything.
Copyright © Mary Franklin 2018
Mary Franklin’s poems have appeared in numerous publications including Ink Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Message in a Bottle, The Open Mouse and Three Drops from a Cauldron. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.