Uncut Footage
1.
He Lets Her In
She said her name was Tracy Evidence
but I would not believe that. I am called
Case, Justin Case. Both of us were burdened
with criminal misnomers. Blond as snow
her spell dimmed the room. “Now,” she said, “convince
me you are blood and bone. Stretch out your tall
shape. Brush my face with your eyes.” So I turned
my back. Kept silent. Watched a taxi’s slow
progress through traffic. “No one’s coming, miss,
if that’s why you’re waiting. Your cool face stalls
time but clocks keep ticking. Something I learned
before you were pulled out of air. You know
my name. I’ve heard yours. Why not just commence
your tale. Pauses bore me and I might fall
asleep. Kiss me back to life then and return
your gun. I smell oil. You don’t need to show
it off. I’ll do the polite, hear your hints
and you can trust my form. I’m no Ken doll®
to play with. I’ll tell you if the words burn
blue and true. Close those dark eyes. Talk. Now. Go.”
2.
She Spells It Out
Her hands draw crisp minarets in the air:
I pass a fish across the sun.
I wait for two days, then wait one.
I turn my eyes from what might come
And I remember all you’ve done.
Now watch me scrape scales off the moon
Then listen closely. Hear its tune.
The light fades out while white sands bloom
And your harvest comes with dark at noon.
Now look: her fingers fold to sketch a square:
You’ll chase a trail of white lip gloss
Over unsettled, suspect sheets.
You will not touch the scar you’ve lost
Blazing a trail with white lip gloss
That drops from her purse. Your careless toss
Leads from mirrored walls to empty streets.
You’ll chase your tale. The bright lip gloss
Is settled. You’ll suspect her sheets.
Palm shadows shape a tree, its branches bare:
They lean and stretch their lost (slipped?) kisses. Now look—
Their skin takes fright and they miss
With eye and tongue. What’s at risk
Is this morning, as a blue evening
Closes, broken. Without cues
Songs begin for just those two,
Beyond our ears. They hide their bright silence
In half notes fenced by a white
Sheet. Over that wall, their night.
3.
Elsewhere
Apostle spoons settle in red velvet.
Their case is open. Dust never sleeps. Clocks
click, stuck on a minute. A featherweight
page sighs, falls back into the leather book.
No one is in the is room, so that sunbeam
may not exist. A perhaps cat once preened
here. Stray hairs give her away. Old smoke—
Yesterday’s ghost—hovers. The curtain inflates
then drops soft against smudged glass. All the locks
are open. This emptiness is at rest.
4.
Around A Corner
Two eyes, blank as steel, shift loosely
as lazy toys from a school carnival.
They see nothing. They reflect less. But once,
maybe an hour ago, they were alive
as water, looking through a mirror to see—
What? Here’s a mute witness. Your arrival
is empty. Move along. There’s not a chance
of recall. Some one came. They peeked, then died.
About the Poet
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 the anthologies: Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. He has also been nominated for both Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. He is the author of two full-length collections, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execution (Local Gems) as well as two chapbooks, Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics, (Folded Word). He has written several novels: Knight Prisoner (Vagabondage Press), The Magic War (Loose Leaves Publishing), and A Book of Lost Songs (Wild Child Publishing, forthcoming). He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and filmmaker Joan Juster where he makes a living showing people pretty things in his city.