by Krista Franklin

after Stanley Brown

Upon entry, The Hierophant hears 
two patrons state, there’s nothing  
in here, which may or may not be true, 
depending upon one’s position, what is seen,  
unseen. The question of visibility, what 
is worthy of recognition, what’s hidden.  
One’s proximity to, or distance from, 
the length of a foot, a lead pipe, 
copper wire, two shadows triangulate  
between sanded cedar blocks. If it sounds  
boring, it may be. What if I asked you to draw me 
a map, and made it mine? Am I a thief? 
What are the measurements of ownership  
if everything is stripped to millimeter, 
access to any and all information outside 
the numerical, denied. What if you are forced 
to draw your own conclusions, your only clues 
a pencil-thin sequence descending a sheet 
of white, a library of one-liners filed 
in metal cabinets. A whiteout room singing 
sterility, galleries cloaked in opacity. 

in obscurity.  

Poem copyright 2026 by Krista Franklin. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Krista Franklin on The Fight & The Fiddle: “High Priestess,” “Mourner’s Corner,” and “This is not your poem.”

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt