Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003

The Knife

a man: “The books are all wrong. Besides you’ve never read them. “You are another person. “I’ve told you all about it, maybe you don’t remember. “I had a very long, very sad dream I just wanted to see a human face.” The Knife In my sleep: Fell at his feet wanted to eat him right up would have but even better he talked to me. Did I ask you to? Were those words my blood-sucking too? Now I will have a body again move differently, easier back to the plan a little house a woman and a man crossed against yours my soul will show glow through my breastbone: Back down into the kitchen yours Here I will save you others have failed, even died, but I will save you you save me devour me away up Woke up: I can cry but I can’t wake up today again don’t answer the door then did couldn’t look at you talk ordinary things 111 couldn’t place the bed in the room, or where the room was when I closed my eyes This is the same old knife my knife I know it as well as I know my own mouth It will be lying there on the desk if I open my eyes I will know the room very well there will be the little thrown-out globe of blood we left and every molecule of every object here will swell with life. And someone will be at the door. Seeing L’Atalante (Directed by Jean Vigo, 1934) A woman sits at her worktable, reading stories, thinking of all the true stories she’d never tell out of love, and shame, root fear: broken glass, torn walls. Reading stories about rivers (she is the river), rafts crossing over, father, husband, lover, her own sons. The river sings; he has always thought that. Stories. The stories cross over. On the raft he makes a shelter for her, fills a glass (sees her trembling, clear), tries to sleep. Hours, hours, is he sleeping or swimming. Save her, save them, leave them alone, his voice beats, his lungs, his heart, his arms beat, beat, so slowly, the wavering dark and the dark is smiling, wanting their smile, their faces for its own. 112 door in the mountain ...