Below the Cellar of the Yellow House There is Another Set of Stairs by Robin Behn

You are not a drill or a mole or at a film.
Not that meteor destined for earth’s tomb.
Your thighs bear no message from the yellow pollen surface.
Hell is somewhere else and you’ve already been to the womb.

You will need these stairs.

You are not blind cave-fish, not deep,
translucent crab, not scuttle, not squirm.
Not time enough in your life to adapt.
And you are not just mind, not just a bunch of words.

You will need these stairs.

So here’s your coat of sprightly arms,
and here’s your staff, a little worn.
And you will need this mantle, as earth needs its mantle
to cool itself as inner and outer are re-formed.

And you will need these stairs.

You can have this mask, this set
of masks, soft on the face-side.
And here is a bun in the shape of a storm,
according to your hunger and your sighs.

You will need these stairs.

Did we mention how the landings are ivory
as horses’ teeth if you get down that far?
How, willingly, not wavering,
with their long velvet jaws ajar…

So you must take these stairs,

jagged as your heart. Because the Other vanished.
Because it is the nature of sweet hovering to elapse.
And stay in you, small wind, rough pearl. The silver sound
of blood-borne starts, collapsed.

You will need these stairs.