side door 

we don't use the front door to
of my parent's house. that's 
where we keep the coats & the jackets
& the red scratchy mitten 
that lost its other half. 
there's too many coats. it's
too tight. the wool brown shawl.
the blue blazer with the elbows
worn out. even the delivery boy
from Mama's Pizza knew that
we all come in through the side door.
the front door is green. the side
door squeals as it open, the lid
of a can of peaches. the syrup
across my thighs. don't cut
yourself on the rim, i lick
the lip of the can & my tongue
bleeds all over the kitchen counter.
if you knock no one would hear you,
ring the door bell. as my father
installed it i lay on the living
room floor & pretended the chime
was the toll of some far-off clock 
tower. the light on the porch.
we put a wreath on the front door
& didn't remember to take
it down till at least april.
it was evergreen & cranberry.
now it hangs on a hook with
the too-many-coats. the folds,
the layers, the tampons that 
never fit, on the carpet like 
the columns of a dead church. 
i'm convinced that the front door
wouldn't open now even if we wanted
it to. a place for holding.
a place for the blue knit hats
i used to wear. my father's vampire
cape. the tall vase made for holding
umbrellas. we don't own any umbrellas.
we ordered pizza. i learned how
to take out the storm windows 
& come into. come inside, wipe
your feet on the coats but careful
it's sharp in there. when we first 
moved in our family's love for the
house blushed in all the windows. 
the lamp in the upstairs hallway
trips the breaker. dark. the towel
wrack in the bathroom rips off
the wall. the sink upstairs overflows,
running down the stair case. 
when i visit i want to come
in the front door, or, at least
hide in there. step in between
all our old winter wear. tongue 
& teeth. hide & go seek. you won't
find me, crawling between scarves
to touch the heavy cold door. 
gold knob. back up against it,
i tell the house that i love her. that i love
our old house so much. the banister
snaps like a hip bone. i tell her
she doesn't have to open. no she
doesn't. the coats all come down from
their hooks like when everyone kneels
for adoration at mass. i don't
find the other red glove. open the
can of peaches, gently out the side door.
the taste of syrup. enough. enough.