Late Set, Last Number

by Mark J. Mitchell (March 2026)

Late Set, Last Number
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Her alto voice surrounds each note,
hits them like they’re poisoned arrows,
too perfect to pierce the lyrics.
She’s boxed in by her reverence
and a clear shortage of lost years.
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You listen, tense as a tuning fork,
watching ice melt from clear to brown
in your untouched drink. You’re afraid
you’ll crack cubes on her lethal phrase,
wishing you had years to spare her.
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Hammerklavier
Beethoven, Sonata #39 in B-flat Major
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This monument
seems carved in ivory,
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punctuated by flatted
notes trapped in bass.
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You listen, hearing
(you think) an old man
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engraving a grand
statement in sound.
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You forget that
someone gave him
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a new piano. Look
how my arms stretch,
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he thought, playing
with his black, shining toy.
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Family Saga
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A picture dropped from the book of war lies
your sister sent for no reason. It’s you
and her before your brother was born. Smiles
cold, forced. Christmas, maybe? You wear good clothes
and you know she just punched your arm. Your few
teeth reflect hurt, but it doesn’t quite show.
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You pick up the fading snapshot. Did she
mean this small memory to ride along
with her political message? To tease
some page—a bookmark? That photographed youth
haunts you both. Did she want to abandon
time? Stop thinking. It just fell from a book.
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Still, that stiff pose and your blue clip-on tie
make you wonder where the other pictures live.
Because ever since you could breathe they tried
to hold you both close on film. They left your
brother out. He cried so much and couldn’t forgive
your parents for always taking pictures.
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Snacks
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He bought macaroons
because her blue hair
smelled like coconut.
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He wanted to think
of her all day.
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She didn’t want pizza
but she stood outside
Tony’s for five minutes
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because the graphite smell
of oregano and garlic
made her see his eyes.
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Winter Night Driving
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You should be a druid by now,
she says, gray as you are. Light’s dead.
He lets the car roll through blank lamps.
touching her knee with his right hand.
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City’s blacked out like a moonless night.
Tech druids should’ve fixed it now.
Traffic drifts and her smile’s his light
for guidance. A danger to both.
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Brake lights ahead. His foot presses
the pedal. Pulls over and stops.
If you’re a druid, you’ll know how
to get us home safe, she teases.
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He stretches his right arm out to her,
pulls her shoulder to warm shoulder.
Says nothing, seeing her. She says,
be a druid, but not right now.
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