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By Mark J. Mitchell
The Cruelty of Yaweh
In the cool of an evening
just outside Eden, Cain
returned from the altar
and his mother asked, Cain,
man I brought forth, where
is your brother?
Cain’s eyes closed. His lips
tremble like forbidden leaves.
Mother, I don’t know.
We were kneeling at the altar. Yahweh
smiled on him, not on me. So,
I hit him.
You shouldn’t do that, Eve says,
where is he now? Beside
the altar, mother, but he’s gone.
Gone where? Will he return?
Should I wait our good red lentils?
Tell me what you know.
He’s beside the altar, but
He’s gone, like the sheep
whose neck he twisted.
He’s there and gone. Cain,
Eve ordered. Lead your father to him.
When the boy left, Eve learned how to cry.
Waiting Rooms
Illness is a convent which has its value, its austerity, its silence and its inspiriation.
—Albert Camus
Notebooks, 1943-1951
You’re led through a construction maze.
past doors, closed, labeled. Some unmarked.
Here, medical magics are played
by adepts. It’s accidentally dark.—
the breakers aren’t set. They’re in parts
on someone’s workbench. Equipment
of cures and sad news. Instruments
of arcane art surround you.
You’re cold. It’s early. You’d like a new
room where they’ll prove your existence.
When you wake, you won’t be told
you failed. Dusty plastic will part.
Women in blue ask if you’re cold
then leave. You hear the words, “ his heart,“
nothing else. Just unplastered dark.
You wait. Find your phone. Cry. Wait.
There’s a form. They’d like you to rate
your stay. You feel for mishung clothes,
sure that now’s your one chance to go.
Walk the maze. Leave before you’re late.
Nostalgic Game
Playing at statues, she turns suddenly hard,
all night in her backyard. Dew
beads her hair, her skin, her shoes.
Morning, his long hands, cool from shaping
girls, he spots her, waiting, stands
back, to frame things, make a plan.
To place her like a statue or a tarot card
left behind? Shards of light flew
from her dewy face, not hard
in morning light. His hands are frozen, won’t obey
his desire to pray. She’ll stand
for days. A silent command.
The Endura *of Simone Weil
We must give up everything which is not grace and not even desire grace.
—Simone Weil
The BBC rang through the ward but God’s
voice came through her teeth. Only she
knew his instructions. She sometimes forgot
when she grew hungry, or when that deep cough
shook her bones or dark bombs rattled the lone tree
outside her window. She was hungry all
the time it seemed. Not taking rationed food
because—The War. The occupied home. Small
sacrifice from her. She couldn’t give food
to the half-starved French. She could only cough
weak blood and stare at old doctors who stood
above her bed too long. Eat, they’d say, eat.
A body agreed but her too strict soul
refused. She had endless prayers to repeat
and visions that were broken by deep coughs
echoing violence. The long war tolled
on like an epic she forgot. Her Christ
still blessed her pale skin. Old glasses misted
with thin breath. She asked for no mystic prize,
just God’s whispered voice filtered through each cough.
She starved her body. Her soul insisted.
*Endura: The way of death for the Cathar Perfecti was self-starvation.
Religious Education
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.
About the Author:
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://www.youtube.com/@markj.mitchell4351
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