It's Still Life

SAINTS NOT SAINTS (Flash Fiction: words: 531, reading time 3-minutes)

INKED

I.
He’s one of those –
a saint who’s not a saint.
He stands on the top step
of a long flight of stairs,
and watches people …

some in haste,
suits and ties,

mothers with their harsh words
for children dragged along on short legs,

homeless men insulated
in newspaper for warmth –
it sticks to their skin,
binds tight as flesh …

And there he stands,
like an unlikely sign,
a bodiless border,
a point of reference,

a peak,
a light,
his finger raised

as if it might stop breath
or the sun from moving.

His eyes are depth,
both high and low,
and downcast.

His profile is shimmering water,
like hesitancy between opposing shores.

I am watching him at a distance,
safe, a chameleon in my neutrals,
standing by a concrete building.

Then he turns and looks directly
at me and smiles, as if he holds
the secrets of heaven and hell.

II.
Run. That was my first thought.

I turned to slip away,
and there he was.
Standing in front of me.

He still loves you, he says. Your dad.
You think he knows everything, now that he’s dead.
You think he knows all your secrets. Every falsehood.
Death doesn’t open that sort of door, he says,
Your secrets are yours, unless you give them away.
He still loves you, he says. Your dad.

I am a flood of tears, spilling down my face, and I say,
Who are you?

He says that’s the wrong question, and I ask him,
Why are you here?

And he says he’s not here – says that I’m where he is.

I look around.
There are no cars.
No people.
No noise.

I don’t recognise this place.
The sun shines.
Flowers appear as if by my suggestion.
A robin lands by my foot.
I’m missing one shoe.

Where’s my left shoe? I ask him.
He says that I lost it.
I seem to accept this as if I already knew it.

Is Mum okay, I ask, and he says he’s not here to speak for her.
He’s here to speak for my dad, so I ask the obvious,

Is Dad okay?

He’s just grand, he replies,
and I realise he has an Irish accent.
I look into his eyes. So kind. So warm.
Those eyes are so familiar.

But not the face – it’s tattooed with hieroglyphs and runes.

They’re a record of your lifetime, he says,
good deeds and bad. Your thoughts.
He answers, as if he knows every question ever asked.

He stares at me, slightly amused.
Yes, he says, It’s as you were told.
I am coincidence.
I am cosmos.
I am your ink.

And then he turns and starts to walk away.

Where are you going, I ask,
and he calls back over his shoulder,
You don’t belong here. Go home.

And he raises his finger, and I wake up.

III.
I haven’t told anyone
what happened last night.
I’ll keep that secret for myself,

and if I’m losing my mind,
I’ll keep that secret also.

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Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.