Mark J. Mitchell

Cinque Poesie

 

 

The Wife of the Saint

 

The wife of the saint never gets thanked.

She suffers—humble, deep in the background

of holy portraits. No one ever sees quick sorrows

painting her blank face. She goes to the bank

so multitudes get fed and makes sure sins

are forgiven. Unseeing, she’s not found

on calendars. Still, she must indulge him.

Eternity’s long. She just has tomorrow.

 

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Lemon Drop Kiss

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His tired bones

close the front door

softly, not to startle her.

 

New soap, he says,

waving a drugstore bag,

vanishing to shelve the gifts of age.

 

He washes his hands—

careful—slow—thorough—

brings them—rinsed—to his face.

 

Then—that lemon summer!

Her long, bright body!

That flare of joy. Of youth.

 

He emerges, folding

a plastic bag. She’ll never

know why he kissed her like that.

 

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Pre-dawn Ghazal

 

Morning cries coffee after a merciless night.

Your eyes open but can’t see the mercy of night.

 

Deep music calls to fog, pulling it off the sea,

wraps the city in damp, merciless light.

 

Red lights blink green. Only two—no, three

cars patrol the street against unmerciful night.

 

Your body sags under invisible trees

as you dream justice, dream mercy, dream night.

 

A siren echoes in short bursts, someone flees

the church shadow. There is no mercy tonight.

 

April, cold, cruel, not biting, will still seize

your bones, marking you day. You want merciful light.

 

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Saint James Church, Redondo Beach

A Sunday in Ordinary Time, 1966

 

Gray statues hover

above a cup balanced

on a stone, draped in green cloth.

 

Wine-red light pours

through leaded glass.

 

Pale hairs circle

a pink bald spot.

 

Nothing moves.

There are no haloes here.

The Mass is a mystery.

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Wine Dark

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All those naked lights clicked off years ago,

before your loose, broken pieces were known.

You don’t see anything in this long dark.

Feel where you step. Stay inside. Loose stars

 

are looking for you. Some are harsh, some kind.

Don’t scatter your secrets for them to find.

 

Remember—this is before times. There’s a now

just arrived. Go ahead, touch it. You’ve known 

its name for years. Another light found you

and shaped these pieces into almost runes

 

that spell your name. Some are harsh. Some the kind

you miss so rarely you almost forgot

their scattered secrets. Now you can find

 

your way through an old dark. You can let light

warm sorry, healthy flesh. Wandering time

picks you out in crowds you no longer know.

Follow your feet. They’ll show you how to go.

 

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu was recently published by Encircle Publications. A new collection, Something to Be and a novel are forthcoming. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, he’s looking for work again. His first chapbook won the Negative Capability Award. A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/ A primitive web site now exists: https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/  I sometimes tweet @Mark J Mitchell_Writer

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