Mephistopheles and Faustus had been eating roast duck
With pancakes and scallions in a Chinese restaurant
In Midtown, and after dinner, they’d gone for a walk
Up toward Central Park. There was a question Faustus
Had wanted to ask for quite a while, but he knew
It was a subject M wasn’t fond of discussing:
“When he rebelled and fought the war in heaven, didn’t
Lucifer know he would lose?” Mephistopheles stared
At an exhaust pipe bleeding beneath the red taillights
Of a cab headed downtown. Of course he knew. We all did.
There was no need even to mention it. The walk sign flashed
White, and they crossed. A limo waited for them to pass
Before turning. “Why did he do it then, and why did you
Follow?” “That’s the difference between us and humans,”
replied m. “You calculate the chances of success and think
About risk, benefit. The beings who fell from the borders
Of the sky were better than that. Love of fate, Faustus,
Your lens grinder, Spinoza, understood it when he
Coughed blood, as did Nietzsche when his madness
Called to him. The lake of fire called to us, and we
Listened. The Light-Bringer most of all. When
He stood there, injured, broken, his brightness crushed
To embers, do you know what he said to me?
‘The Old Man noticed us, Mephistopheles, he noticed us.’”
Faustus looked up, almost involuntarily, but all he could
See was the dull glow of the city reflected by clouds.
George Franklin is the author of eight poetry collections, including the recent A Man Made of Stories,and a book of essays, Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing (both Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025). Individual poems have been published in Solstice, Nimrod, Rattle, New Ohio Review, and ONE ART, among others. He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for Cagibi, teaches poetry classes in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez’s Último día/Last Day.
