Entryways

In entryways to the heart
the old house
father locked up every night,
the courtyards with ferns
mother loved, the burnt stain
of polenta every night, her light
against the darkness of the pots,
the fallen sky.
Who can tear through this web?
Where is it headed?
Who wove it, what little threads
did they put there that bind us still?
Its deepest chasm is the highest.
Don't cut up its messages with
knives worse than death.

Of course it would be hard to translate a poem like this without getting a few things right. I'm not happy with entryways or "deepest chasm," but I like "her light / against the darkness of the pots."

The problem I have is that I can get a pretty good version on the first try, but then what? I find it hard to improve a translation except in very minimal ways.