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. 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.
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