The Persian
Mark J. Mitchell
A day shapes itself out of fog and light.
He examines a sliced view for some small sign
his work is needed. Almost three thousand years
he's watched. It is said he plays their fears
like a flute. After an age of waiting,
he's slack, soft as a snake. His hand's itching
to become fact--his match struck, flame kissing
a fuse. He knows his inherited orders:
Watch. Be the dark presence at the border,
stalk their dreams. All the wrongs will be avenged.
But today, the blinds are dusty. The sun
shows the endless household tasks all undone--
his full sink, damp carpet. The fan buzzing.
One day, the Greeks will come. All will be cleansed.
He examines a sliced view for some small sign
his work is needed. Almost three thousand years
he's watched. It is said he plays their fears
like a flute. After an age of waiting,
he's slack, soft as a snake. His hand's itching
to become fact--his match struck, flame kissing
a fuse. He knows his inherited orders:
Watch. Be the dark presence at the border,
stalk their dreams. All the wrongs will be avenged.
But today, the blinds are dusty. The sun
shows the endless household tasks all undone--
his full sink, damp carpet. The fan buzzing.
One day, the Greeks will come. All will be cleansed.
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for forty years. He has published full-length collections, chapbooks and two novels. His latest collection is Roshi: San Francisco published by Norfolk Press. Another, Something to Be is due soon from Pski Porch, and a novel. A Book of Lost Songs, is on the way. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist, Joan Juster.