The Four Deaths of Mitchell Fish

THE FOUR DEATHS OF MITCHELL FISH

by Luke Daly

[pdf version here: Daly-FourDeathsofMitchellFish]

[see the companion essay “Teaching Fiction: Craft, Composition Theory, and a Lie“]

I. Oxygen

I slash in like a dull knife but don’t tip into the abyss.  Just wow at the Formica.  Some wrongful oxygen rises up the ways in my neck.  I do fall then

II. Oxygen

Slick Mick pushed in through the screen door, stopped in the middle of my eat-in kitchen with the brand new formica countertops his finger in the air like he was gonna say something.  Fell face first on the floor right where you’re standing.  If I’m telling the truth? I hoped he was dead. So I started sifting my hands like this through the bills and penny-savers on the formica, feeling for my cordless phone and hoping that if he was dead, I wouldn’t find the phone quick enough to save him.  And I saw him on Day One, charming as only a drunk can.  Previous to the nightly urination in bed and being too far gone to wake up and clean it.  Previous to driving my glossy black Oldsmobile into the Blue Earth River the day after I got it.  Previous to stabbing his hand with a steak-knife trying to show off for Jenny at Ponderosa.  That’s why Ponderosa uses knives with rounded tips now: My man, Slick Mick.  And here he was in my trailer, like a damned dead fish, oily from the car but no real work, just playing around with his nuts.  Go on and lie there, you sick duck.  I’ll call you an ambulance just as soon as I find my cordless phone.

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Five poems by Dallas Crow

Dallas Crow

1296 Highland Parkway

St. Paul, MN 5511

dallas.crow@breckschool.org

[pdf version here: Crow-poems]

 

Antigone in Her Tomb

_____________________________________________________________________________

Zeus,

Your will, finally, is unknowable. I am

exhausted, exasperated. Look

where my most willful

vows have landed me. Father, mother, and a brother already

underground, exiled for eternity from our native

Thebes . . . I claim no kin in that city. My

so-called sister mourns alone,

respected by a fool and other frauds, a

quorum of spineless idiots

posing as law-abiding citizens. The

offense reeks—a blind man can see that.

No one deserves such a sentence, least of all

my deceived, much-wronged brother—

left to rot on the desert plain. Generations will

know I would not accept that un-

just decree. I am not sorry, though I admit

I may have misjudged the jury of the gods.

Here I will end my otherwise unending agony,

groomless, convicted, and unconvinced.

From now on, on the surface of this most grotesque

earth, my name will echo, a doer of

deeds, one who believes, who acts, while

Creon—cruel, unjust—will be forever

banished from the rolls of the noble.

Always, always, always,

Antigone

[From Small, Imperfect Paradise (Parallel Press, 2013). Originally published in Arion.] Continue reading

4 Poems by Richard Robbins

Four Poems by Richard Robbins


 

 

St. Francis and the Birds

—a painting by Stanley Spencer

 

The parade will go no

further than the wall, where

the gardener shields her eyes,

 

the ducks, hens, and geese scuttle

toward his frock, each dove

and jay leaning forward

 

on the low tiled roof to

watch the boy lead each one,

saint and bird, toward that town

 

his wings would bend for,

blind daylight place from which

his face must turn away.

 

* First published in I-70 Review Continue reading