The Doors

The Church of San Zeno, Verona

The doors were oak, massive. . . .

Their panels, bronze. The 12th Century, a good

Century for fear, he thought, standing there

Before them, these doors of the oldest stories,

Parts of which had always been his life,

His many ancient lives-

It was a beautiful garden; he'd been sorry

To leave. When the boys, his sons, quarreled

And the one fell to the other, he searched

The sky, but the sky blew resolute and bronze... .

Yet what he recalled most of the day

They left, he and she, were the outspread wings

Of the angel, each inscribed with heavy veins

Like the fronds of an enormous feathery

Palm, the plumage of a showgirl,

And the angel's breath, pungent as anise, fine

As the light rising off a mountain lake

In early autumn-He thought

Of the squat boat he must sail, the dove

Set loose above the storming waters,

Of the altar on the hillside and his young

Lamb of a son, of the bitter bronze speaking

At last, saying WAIT! . . . how he'd wept,

Waiting as he had always waited, before

These doors, silence... .

And the doors repeated their stories: good, evil,

All the shavings of testament, or testimony-

Then, in the shifting dark, he saw her

Beginning the dance; though he

Felt his face cocooned by her beauty as

The veils slowly fell, still, his shoulders ached

With the knowledge of the air ripped

By the falling sword. Her body was smeared

With oils and scents, covered with nothing except

The long silk loincloth

Wrapped haphazardly around her hips. She danced,

Naming for the whole of the King's court

Every temptation worth dying for... as

She unwound the silk from her waist, draping

It loosely around his neck, passing

Slowly before every eye, before

Turning to claim her price. Of course, he knew

He should keep his head about this sort of thing,

But as the sweat ran down into his eyes,

He didn't. O Sainted Zeno, doors of frozen decay

Polished by pimps and pilgrims with the froth

Of their prayers, ©... . This was

What he had tried to say, but his tongue grew

So swollen and thick. And his head felt so light,

Yet weary, like a baby's, cradled that way

In her delicate white arms.