Door in the Mountain. Jean Valentine

       New YorkApril 27, 1962

      When we get old, they say, we'll remember

      Things that had sunk below the mind's waking reach

      In our distracted years; someday, knees blanketed, I will reach out

      To touch your face, your brown hair.

      Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. I rest, tending children, in hollow, light rooms, Sleep in their milky fingers, after years Howling up on the tiles while my goblins threw their shoes.

      The child I carry lies alone:

      Which hag did we not invite to its conception?

      I cat-nap, remembering the tiles.

      And you?

      Steps on the sidewalk outside my barred New York windows

      Land on the cracks, let out the bears,

      Loose them on the child who is not there;

      Footsteps that gleam in their echo of SS men's heels

      Off-stage in my first movies: approaching the door.

      We huddle inside and wake to remember it's Peace.

      Peace. But you are not here, nor are you dead.

      No-one forgot my birthday. Twenty-eight.

      How shall we celebrate?

      Fetch my blanket, dearest, there's something in the air,

      Dark, quick, quicksilver, dark eyes, brown hair,

      Bringing all the presents: someone is coming late:

      The babies cry, the bell rings in thin air.