Door by Dana Levin
And then an uprush of air— And then the cellar doors banging back, the strong dusk light falling in like a stanchion, a gold nail hammered through the blackened trees— Can you see it? You, psyche, burden, friend? This is the first time I can speak, the first time I’ve seen you recede from the front in a fission of mist, the doors of this keep flying open in the auric light— And I can smell the green smell of straw puddled in urine, the musk of fur coming up from the hutches, laid out in a row in the leaning light, the blood smell of rust in the hinges of these open doors— I want to look in the black deep and the golden light, if I had two faces and could stand, always, at the distinction, on the wooden step between the gold shaft and the cellar beneath me, I could be like the eye in the center of my head—always to see and never to enter, never to feel the light pierce and the darkness snuff it, the darkness down and the light pierce it, the exhausting round of wounding and healing, I don’t want to feel, but can’t bear not feeling the light swift through the cottonwood leaves, their edges enflamed but their bodies in shadow, black spades oranged in the orange-gold light— I don’t know how to get out of this beauty, I was shut up so long in darkness and weeping, but here the rabbits are black stones on fire in the grass, hurt because they’re lit, hurt because they’re burning, as if the light is leaving thumbs of fire on their curling bodies, on my feet as I stand between the sun and the cellar, can you tell me if this is the place I must enter, to burn without consumption in the ice-fired night? Will I burn from the inside out like a star, will I burn from the outside in in wood-fire, is it blaze, is it anguish, to be the conscious sun that does not die, for isn’t life fire, living the human burning torch— And then a slight wind like a pointing finger, lifting toward the flame-struck field.
Below is the Rauchenberg piece that Danielle would stare at all day. It is titled “Renaissance, 1962”
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