spring2015

Mark J. MitchellWorking WeekendThe motel key was metal—never goldbut close enough. It bent in locks and jammedlost doors. It said: She does just what she’s told.She’s not a fancy girl. All her blue planscurl back up into tight but not neat rolls.She can’t read them when she spreads them out flatacross her tilted desk. Her sins are coldand dull, so there’s no need to diagrameach one. They’ll find her anywhere and seekforgiveness—coy as lost flowers and twiceas grim. Every avenue knows her feetjust tilt on cracked heels. Her soul’s neatly sliced—she’s like a frog cut open on a flattray with a key to some room. She won’t sleep.86