Door in the Mountain. Jean Valentine

glass man

      on the glass river says

      If only I could get down it alone —But you are getting down it alone…

      Thirsty! I drink

      from my own well

      the red and blue fire

      around my head

      this minute

      vanishing I

      befriended with it

       Two Poems for Matthew Shepard

      But what about the blue dory—the soul

       —Thief the sun Thief the rain

      Into love

      the size of a silver dollar

      [the soul] disappeared

      to a pencil point then

      nothing.

       Left

      his nails

      and his hair.

       The Blue Dory, the Soul

      —I left the blue dory

      there had been so much news

      so many flashbulbs breaking

      up the dory

      so many people

      following their names

      eating their third heavy car

      their third book

      I left the blue dory

      on its hip on the fence

      left my soul not “mine”

      “my” clothes off

      I left the edges of “my” face

      “my” hands

       The Rally

      The rally is about a young black man

      His tongue has been cut by a razor

      the tops of his ears have been cut off

      My clothes my bag

      my money my papers

       It's

      the young man

      My palms

      my soles

       It's

      the young man

      your silent invisible body here at the door

      your glance

       The Growing Christ of Tzintzuntzan

      Come in

      at the narrow door, and then

      go back, but

       not yet—

      Lie down,

      head to my bandaged head, foot

      to growing foot,

      I am so tired, too,

      in my glass box.

       Sheep

      With the winter and mud and shit roped into your wool,

      Your black stick legs, blank eyes—

      The farmer stumps home to his supper

      And you are beyond your own bells

      And my friend is in pain and there's nothing I can do,

      Suffering is everywhere intense, and if

      We make our own pain ourselves, who can help it? Cold selves, Cold you, unbearable clamor and rust—

       To the Bardo

      I dreamed I finally got through to C on the phone

      he was whispering

      I couldn't make out the words

      he had been in the hospital

      and then in a home

      M was sick too

      You know how in dreams you are everyone:

      awake too you are everyone:

      I am listening breathing your ashy breath

      old Chinese poet:

      fire:

      to see the way

       Rodney Dying (4)

      A woman was picking up the plastic

      forks and napkins in a plastic box

      I was sitting on the grass floor leaning

      against your knees: Under the ground

      I sat down on the floor and embraced your knees.

      *

       Door in the Mountain

      Never ran this hard through the valley

      never ate so many stars

      I was carrying a dead deer

      tied on to my neck and shoulders

      deer legs hanging in front of me

      heavy on my chest

      People are not wanting

      to let me in

      Door in the mountain

      let me in

       Monarch butterfly

      Monarch butterfly,

      dip your hand

      in the wooden box

      of papers on my back

      and open me Take

      the hand inside the hand

      I'm struggling to leave:

      Let my hand play!

       My old body

      My old body:

      a ladder of sunlight, mercury dust floating through—

      My forgivenesses,

      how you have learned to love me in my sleep.

       Inkwell daybreak

Inkwellstairway	daybreak
	stairway

      Dear girls and boys,

      would you go with me and tell me

      back to the beginning

      —so we can understand!

      the journey of our lives

      where we met with cruelty

      but kindness, too,

      and nosed up out

      of the cold dark water,

      and walked on our fins…

       The path between

      The path between the