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

To a Young Poet

like her.” You said, “I’m going to kill myself.” And I said, “How does your mother feel about that?” You said, “She’s without feelings, very factual; she says, There’s only a fifty-fifty chance you’ll pull it off with this method, they’re so good these days at reviving people with money.” “What method, Michael?” And you said, “The broth method.” Then you said, “Did you imagine, when you were a youngster, that in 30 or 40 years you would be my mother, and having this conversation?” I said, “That’s right, it is 30, no, 40 years. I don’t want to be in your mother’s shoes right now.” Waking up, I thought: No, this is the other Michael. Bud Christmas night, my father said, “Jean, you are so disloyal.” But Bud said, “No. Ethereal. Ethereal, but my friend. And I, I got my prayer answered: I died with my life around me.” To a Young Poet This January night at ten below I wish you true desire, like a rose: to stand in your chest. Veined. Bloom. Let you be. Reflected in the train window, inside a thousand circles of public darkness, desire, a round red star. And desire again, a foliating wand, and you the Jack of Wands. the river at wolf 189 The round red rose of sleep in bloom. This is true desire, it lets you be. It says, “No money here.” What does it taste like? True desire. Eyeshadow , cinnamon. Foraging 1. the room Why did you keep finding me where I was? Your seeking, your cage: oh, your animus against breasts, shadowed eyelids . . . yet like holding your breath, holding Love. Love, you said, come in. Love, let me in. Everyone else was asleep. Look at me, you said. The luminous room. Eve formalized. A kiss: my fear and my love, not here yet, but for here. 2. the luminous room What it felt like: first it was the kiss. Look at me, he said. 190 door in the mountain ...