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

We Go Through Our Mother’s Things

we don’t know, should we throw water over it or not—which will be worse for the earth (the earth itself isn’t on fire yet, only the corn in the field, and the next field). The dwarf says, Hold it! walking up between my legs into my body: I’d better see the fire skin. At My Mother’s Grave Being told, Go away. So what is left? This dark space on the road, that was a deer. So many gifts: her hazel eyes . . . What day did she go away? Walt Whitman, visitor, Emily Dickinson, canoe of light, Pablo Neruda, radio flier, fly me in. We Go Through Our Mother’s Things When we started that day to paint snow for earth 210 door in the mountain and sky for bread then we knew it was time to light the last candle. This ring is yours. This lamp. Death Asphodel —I feel like I’ve buried somebody inside of me Parts of her I don’t remember yet Parts of myself I don’t remember yet —Yes you mean there is somebody blind and gummy lying next to you when you’re asleep —Yes that’s it. Goodbye, down the elevator, something about flowers, about giving flowers. Me to my daughter? My daughter to me? My mother to me. Green flowers soon to bloom. To the Memory of David Kalstone Here’s the letter I wrote, and the ghost letter, underneath— that’s my work in life. the river at wolf 211 ...