The welcome mat on my pelvis and 
the scar that is the front door. 

My tongue is a red door.
Thick entrance of a church
-- heavy slammed-- stained glass
glasses into the congregation--
shut to shutter in the pews-- 
and waiting there's a choir 
in those baptism robes
with the chord belts
they tied in knots
and knots and "do-nots"
numbered to ten in stone--
Moses said we only have ten rules
and Jesus gave us two
and we spent an existence
finding new ways to break down red doors
and drip God-blood into chalices--
You know there's something
beautiful about that and 
I like my tongue to be red
my lips top be red
my fingers to be red
and I like my church doors red--

The choir laughs and tells us that
every door means welcome
if you paint it red-- red-red
blood-red wine-red- Lutheran-red
red like every opening in my face--
punch my nose like a door knob red--
wipe your shoes on my hips--
the front step of my pelvis reads
"welcome home" because
I have learned that home is a 
place other people make with 
my body-- a place to leave
car keys dangle from my ears--

I know I am supposed to be
an hourglass who forgets
everything about time-- I learned
to count grains of coffee cake crumbs the size
of sand-- eat only 
potato chips of lettuce
from the crouched 
corner of a cage full of hay--
but I'm red-- DAMN IT-- and 
I'm blood-red, scab-red
fat hot-house tomato red
and boiled crab-red--

I'm not a stamp collection of scars.
This isn't a museum.
It's not a "pay-what-you-can"--
it's a tongue that's a red door.
I could paint a night sky
with all this red front door
in me-- I'm not just a 
place to wipe your sandals--
call me refuge-- call me
forgiven-- call me
confessional without 
a wall or a priest-- call me declaration
of loving everything but my
own hips--

I'm just asking 
that you leave
the scars where they are
and close the front door
gently. 
It's heavy.