Now it is night when I think of you at all,
and only after more recent casualties. A heart
so widely distributed cannot be recalled
in full, like a malfunctioning engine part.
There must be a remnant sharing a hammock
somewhere in Mexico, and seated at an oyster bar
gazing at callused hands, and with a mechanic
on an oil-stained couch before he fixed the car.
Yet I love you more, having not loved you longer.
Every end, somehow, brings back the start--
your body morphs into that of any stranger.
And though I tried to give you my heart,
it was only after, like an organ donor:
longing for you having not loved you more.
A Doorless Knocking into Night is the poetic record of a brilliant and passionate young woman, who died unexpectedly at the age of thirty-two. Poem-making seems to have been a joy for Lexi Rudnitsky. There is a vibrant play in the way the words and images easefully move in their forms, like a body at peace with itself. And the body is the vehicle through which this poet speaks. She passionately reduces the world to what for her are its essential parts: food and sex. The poems of A Doorless Knocking into Night are guided by the heart's intelligence through a varied physical landscape, mapping foreign travel, though the underlying terrain is closer to home: human contact and its inadequacies.
"If a dancer, Lexi Rudnitsky would have been a flamenco, but it is her poems that stamp and challenge, whip and coruscate. Her sense of place is drastic, her language marking landscapes of the other with sensuality that is abrupt, certain, and proud. A line written at the end of her short life declares: 'This is not an obituary.' No wonder! How forcefully, always, these poems insist on living."--Honor Moore, author of Red Shoes