Field Notes from a Teacher

As long as a man is at the waters

he is never dead. –Cicero

My students learn about the Romans,

gladiators who fought to entertain—

unharmed audiences laughing at blood.

After work, I go to the Swannanoa,

where ripples are like eyes and mouths,

opening, closing, opening, closing.

I wasn’t so aware of patterns

until I started teaching.

I am becoming accustomed to repetition.

I answer the same question

hundreds of times, except sometimes

I’m asked something harder

and I don’t know how to answer.

Why do people fight? Why do they kill?

Now, I watch the river whisper

its waves over dashed rocks

and it’s like all answers live there,

somewhere unreachable

in the depths.

A few of the boys have given up

on wondering, and instead

found repetition more appealing.

They like to play war games,

wrestle and tackle and push

their friends into the muddy field.

There is much laughing

about blood, in our class.

But I am at the water tonight

and tomorrow I’m going to talk

about the Tigris and the Euphrates,

how while the legions fought,

some people would go to the rivers

and find peace.

Appalachian River

All the little streams

that run through the mountains

used to be one river.

The fish lived collectively,

swimming in one home,

among the same algae,

same insects, same stones.

The northern hogsuckers

turned over pebbles

and foraged for food.

Cool water soothed

smooth, shimmering scales.

The chubs built nests

they shared with all

the rest; the shiners dashed

back and forth, a show

of bright illumination.

But one day, a shadow

covered their world in darkness.

The earth split apart.

Blue ridges, shifting rock

tumbled down into the houses

the fish had so carefully constructed.

Divided neighborhoods,

disconnected communities.

Still today, the fish live

in separate tributaries,

swimming in bubbles

that float and drift

toward the surface.

When droplets burst

at the edge of the water,

the fish remember—

how they once thrived.

They survive, now—

on their own, but hear

the whispers of their ancestors,

rolling through the current.

Eliana Franklin is a sixth-grade teacher in Asheville, NC, with a degree in creative writing and environmental studies. She has work published or forthcoming in Pensive Journal, The Tiger Moth Review, and Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry. She can often be found outside, writing poetry about her experiences in the mountains she calls home.

Instagram: @artisteliana

Facebook: Eliana Franklin