MARK J. MITCHELL - POEMS

Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as anthologies including Good Poems, American Places. It has also been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. He has three chapbooks in print: Lent 1999, (Leaf Garden), Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics (Folded Word) and a novel, Knight Prisoner,(Vagabondage Press). Another novel, The Magic War is available from Loose Leaves Publishing. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian Joan Juster.

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                      TIME TO PLANT TEARS
           
 
                        He died for a long time—and then again.
                        His tricks were slick—underhanded, but kind
                        as cats. Making his breath slower than her eyes,
                        he’d slip away, recarve his headstone and
                        laugh under dirt—then cough. She’d never find
                        his living corpse but she didn’t try. She’d feel
                        alone—briefly—then cook or watch TV
                        or shuffle Tarot cards. Her days would grind
                        along. He came back—faithful as a tree--
                        and she served dinner knowing he’d clear
                        their clean dishes. It’s the game of their years--
                        or his. She played with her cards not his fears
                        and she was sure it would happen again--
                        She’d forgive—again—then uncover mirrors.
 

 
                              OUTSIDE EDEN
 
 
                                    This moon
                                    makes things cold.
                                    The air’s brittle
                                    as dry twigs and
                                    leaves crack
                                    like snail shells.
                                    Adam had a name
                                    for these days.
                                    Adam
                                    had a name
                                    for everything.
 
                                    The fire’s
                                    burned low and
                                    glows red. The boys
                                    and their wives
                                    are quiet--
                                    the girls, moist,
                                   and boys are soft.
                                   I feed
                                   sticks to coals
                                   and think
                                   of my first boys.
 
                                    The round one--
                                     He laughed like lightning
                                     and got quickly mad.
                                     He always smelled
                                     like dirt.
                                     His skin was cool,
                                     soft at his middle
                                     but his hands were hard--
                                     clumsy as rocks.
 
  
                                    That other--
                                    I never warmed
                                    to him. He chased
                                    animals—sure
                                    that boys should do that.
                                    He made Adam
                                    smile—Adam
                                    had a nice smile,
                                     but I never liked
                                     that boy.
 
                                     So I rock
                                     on my heels under
                                     a cold moon. I
                                     feed sticks to a fire
                                     and I wonder
                                     if my little, round
                                     Cain
                                     will ever again
                                     visit his mother.
 
                                                                       
 
                            A SORT OF A SONNET
 
 
            The mirror shows no mercy
            reflecting this stranger.
 
            The mirror is a cold construction
            built of silver, built of glass.
 
            Where could the mirror hide mercy
            for her forgotten and imagined flaws?
 
            The mirror will show no mercy.
            Her eyes look cold at reflected eyes
 
            And they show no mercy.
            Beaten she leaves the room
 
            seeking the heart of mercy.
            I turn on the cruel mirror, I say--
 
            That is my beautiful Love
            and she does not need your mercy.
 
 
 
                                                CONTRAPASSO
 
                                                The janitors in hell
                                                always miss just one spot
                                                on the Inferno’s hot doors.
 
                                                That is the punishment
                                                for a perfectionist.
 
 

                                       AHIMSA
 
 
                                                I cup my right hand
                                                            over my ear to capture
                                                a lost mosquito.
 
                                                How did it get trapped
                                                            in this warm and throbbing cave?
                                                Can it ever leave?
 
                                                Blindly, it bites me.
                                                            My hand opens like white blinds.
                                                It leaves, bearing blood.