Two Poems by Steve Mitchell

flash fiction

There is an instant
when the finish might
be different,
when a path flickers
and vanishes like a light
in a distant window
so quick and so far
we have to wonder if we saw it.

There is a moment—
one of us always notices—
when we wouldn’t have ended angry.
The blue-white spark as it fades
illuminates new words,
a simple gesture or a sigh
which allows the room
to bump to a stop.

We’re motionless in a hung frame,
trapped in the pivot
of tragedy or farce.
Gasping, our arms flail
one for the other like castaways,
or stars sharing meteor burn,
before we collapse into
the roles we know so well.

***

declension

Wine the color of old blood and
a candle rescued from a forgotten party,
blue light spilling low
over the sill.
The night rolls over and away from me
toward the edge of another day.

Her foot pushed from the twisted sheet,
her fingers flattened at the threshold
—hand at the window
breath clouding glass—
her steps funnelling down the stairs.

I’m on my hands and knees
at the deepening stain
plucking shards from the carpet
dropping each thin curl
into my palm while
writing and re-writing
the letter I’ll never send.

More poetry at Used Furniture.