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

At the Door

The First Angel Fat slippery angels, two by two, carrying sheaves of straw to the graveyard, leaning sheaves of straw on the gravestones, straw on the frost stones. God’s hands trembled when he touched my head, we are so much in love: the new moon holding the old moon in her arms. The first angel said, Write down this: It is time to leave your past life, leave your plumb-line, your trowel, your layers of habitation, your perfect finds-tray. At the Door Seeing my daughter in the circle of lamplight, I outside: It is not I, it is Mother. (But it is I.) It is the first tableau, the first red wellspring of I. Chimpanzee of longing, outside the light, 212 door in the mountain wrap your long arms around the globe of light, hold your long haunches wide open: be ungodly I. Yield Everything, Force Nothing Years circling the same circle: the call to be first, and the underlying want: and this morning, look! I’ve finished now, with this terrific red thing, with green and yellow rings on it, and stars. The contest is over: I turned away, and I am beautiful: Job’s last daughters, Cinnamon, Eyeshadow, Dove. The contest is over: I let my hands fall, and here is your garden: Cinnamon. Eyeshadow. Dove. Alone, Alive Alone, alive with you the river at wolf 213 ...