His toy grail broke. The holy shards flew wild,
covering his cold, quite maculate floor.
No one came to save him. The further side
stayed far off. He remembered how to pray
and tried that, but the toy cup still blocked
his path. He believed the myth of his door
for years. He’d build bridges with blocks and played
with paper boats, still shaping his small creed
of exodus that led through the unlocked
way out (he tried rebuilding the chalice,
but fingers failed). He learned that he could read—
children’s books just saved you from animals,
not a relic-paved floor. He grew fanciful,
praying his cell into a flawed palace.
She took her sudden vow seriously,
setting the eggplant on top of a trash can.
It looked flat as an altar.
She bowed east, to the hill, then west,
towards another hill. South
at the vanishing bus, then north.
She left her brand new shoes
outside a perfectly red door.
She dropped her keys in the left shoe.
She smiled before sealing the room
behind her. Her last words are
“These are my last words.”
Mark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses.
He has also been a working poet for almost 50 years.
An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing.
He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka, Dante, and his wife, activist and documentarian Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco, where he once made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, he is seeking work once again.
he can be found reading his poetry here: https://firstname.lastname@example.org