MANSPLAINING MOONRISE
Look east—you rarely look that way.
It’s small—a green glow. Let’s walk up
that hill. The park filters twilight.
We’ll climb the slide and watch the sky.
Below the bridge—see it? The play
on water arcing. How its stuck
one thin horn above the bay. Right
there. Can you see with your new eyes?
The moon can rise during a day
and you may miss it. She can touch
your bones. When she sinks in night
we’re left with stars and lonely sky.
SEVENTH MONTH, SEVENTH NIGHT
Shadows cannot be caught, echoes are hard to hold.
—Lu Chi
She leaves her jade flute beside her cool bed.
The river calls her name so she dons a hat
because it looks pretty under the moon.
She smells water, blossoms and something that
scares her a bit, like the last word he said.
She’ll watch time pass, singing to the moon,
remembering his head resting on her lap.
Tonight, the star bridge forms and lovers meet.
Her voice sounds green as that flute. A low note
trails off. She shakes under the greedy moon
and stretches her arms wide. Wind makes her sleeves
into sails. She waits for lovers to float
from their stars to her much colder moon.
She prays to fly and greet them on this breeze.
Magnolia leaves drop to the stream. Her heart
frightens her with silence. Her dyed silk dress
feels dull. His army’s away. The white moon
is cruel as war, sending out stinging pests.
Clouds form and lovers stay—always—apart.
She stands, passive as time, singing the moon,
wanting his ghost hands to open her dress.
GHAZAL OF THE GAME
A screen shapes itself into a chessboard.
Pawns pray to stand on a wooden chessboard.
She plays a violin all afternoon at the sky
then stops sharp, before a rest. Bored.
Children are ordered into straight desks.
They must face towards the test board.
An empty president reviews rows of young men.
His draftable bones didn’t impress the board.
Foghorns warn towering ships. Tides swing
wide. One by one they load the guests aboard.
You sit very still, hand hovering on a bishop
as if you’d leave your mark on this chessboard.
THE WATCHER AND THE HUNTER
Watching her, he didn’t know to care
she’d lost more than her name or money.
Searching, the air she moved stayed blue
but grounds shifted height and colour.
She looked frantic but steady. He watched,
leaning—always—back, just out of sight.
Not always here. She ransacked different sites,
he knew. He thought, at first, she didn’t care
where she looked as long as someone watched.
But, following her for days, he’d bet old money
on her locations. His bills all discoloured,
theft-red on green, though some dyes were blue.
Often, he’d drop tens or ones. They blew
past her. He couldn’t loosen her sight
from whatever she hunted. She might be colour
blind, or maybe she didn’t have a care
for his little games. She sought clean money
or broken relics. Maybe some crystal-cracked watch.
He attracted loud followers. They’d watch
when he’d fetch her food or when blue
skies went threatening. He’d use his loose money
to buy her coats, dropping them just within her sight
lines. She never spoke and he never cared.
Her voice would be glass-grey, almost uncoloured.
by the lightness of her hand. Dust coloured
her nails, marking the strict hours of her watch.
She’d scratch paper scraps, only those she cared
to read, memorizing words, splitting white from blue
pages. Her lips moved, he noticed, when his sight
drifted towards her mouth. Maybe she counted money
that no one saw. Or small stones that stood as money
for her lonely quest. She smiled a lot. Nothing coloured
her mood. Maybe they were prayers, recited
to the god of hiding and finding, who watched
her while he looked over her shoulder and blew
soft answers to words she spoke without care.
One morning broke. She was gone. He cared, but her lost colours
left him like money. His entourage still watches
for her blue return. But she’s vanished. There are no sightings.
THE MAKE-UP TABLE
She will never
find her way back.
Not to her last love.
Not to the bird-headed god.
They do not call her.
She will never hear them.
Flowers and the river
can’t lure her out of dark.
No, but these precious pots
and her cat-fur brushes
they will keep her
in this stone tomb.
Her punishment, just this,
there is no light—
she won’t see her mirror.
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for 50 years. He’s the author of five full-length collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He’s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco where he points out pretty things.
His poems have also appeared in many magazines over the last thirty years, including The Comstock Review, J Journal, kayak, Blue Unicorn, Black Bough, Santa Barbara Review, Pearl, Lilliput Review, Runes, Buddhist Poetry Review, Plainsongs, Snakeskin, Matchbook Poetry, HeyDay Magazine, Indigo Rising, Mas Tequila, The Lyric and Poem. .Recently he has recently been nominated for a Best of the Web Award, The Best Spiritual Writing 2025 and a Pushcart Prize.
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