Rules of Ingress/Egress

Don't Open the Door to Strangers

When I answer the door it's two men, tall, expressionless—they could be JWs, but they hold pry bars, not pamphlets. When my eyes drop to their weapons they rush forward. I push back on the door with all of me, which isn't enough. Suddenly—wondrously—the tongue of the lock clicks back into the mouth of the lock and the deadbolt is thrown. I feel Him behind me. When I turn to look He's gone.

When It's Jesus Let Him In

I am told to give in, give up, let Him into my heart, let Him into my life, listen to what He says, do what He says, give Him all that I am, be like Him, be His Bride even. And I feel the she of me push up against the He of Him, feel myself capitalize myself, see the She of Me stand up to the He of Him. I'm telling Him, Hey, wipe that Shekinah off your face. And quit tracking glory into the house.

When It's Your Poet Friends Open the Door

Show them to the dining room table set with a basket of crostini and salmon dip and seven copies of your latest poem. Explain that he's back. You thought he was living with his father, but, no, as the story goes, he rowed across the sea and walked into a desert. Just part of his job. Kind of a business trip. Try to explain away the bright light coming from the living room. Say he's watching the game. Shrug your shoulders when they ask, What game? The season's over.

When It's Jane Let Her In

She talks about the old-world charm of Quebec City, the future of AI, and what's buried under the right paw of the Sphinx. She talks about aging in place, Bitcoin, and rocket ships carved on ancient Sumerian stelae. She talks about Agenda 21, the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, and how Jesus is half god, meaning half Annunaki. But mostly she talks about her son, his long list of head injuries, how that explains why he acts the way he acts, something about neuroplasticity.