Throwback Thursday: Poetry by Mark J Mitchell

She opened the door
lit the way with a rose.
An almost look about her as if
I were wearing her virginity.
A time step and smile
kick the past out of me, sit me down.
— Can I —
She shakes her head, finger to lips.
Her druid mouth open and silent.
Music from somewhere — her breathing?
I’ve forgotten my question.
A pass of her hands produces a drink.
Her body unfolds like a landless horizon
and I have been long at sea. Melody twists.
A thin note gets caught in my ear.
I know I’ll never sleep again.
She knew him, perhaps saw him last,
I knew that much and could guess more.
I smelt a death coming, but I didn’t know whose.
She holds the rose tight, blood tears on thorns.
I sip my drink tasting no poisons,
waiting for her answer or knife. I try
to look tough, detached. I fail.
In half light, her arms find me.
Force me through steps, her tongue in my mouth.
We are both mutes, the instruments
have changed places. She begins to tap.
Leads me to the door. Takes a bow.
She blows me a kiss
turns off the rose.