Welcome all the visitors, you say.
Do not put bars on the windows
or locks on the doors. Do not close up
the chimney flue. Duct tape and plastic
sheeting will not keep visitors at bay.
They’ll pound on the doors, they’ll break
your windows, they’ll breach the barricades
they’ll storm the beach, swarm in like ants
through cracks. They’ll leak like water through
the walls, and creep like mice, and curl like smoke
and crack like ice against the window glass.
Keep them out? It can’t be done, don’t try.
Welcome all the visitors.
Fine. There’s all kinds
of welcoming, however.
I do not have to throw a house party.
I will not post flyers.
There will be no open bar.
No one will get drunk
and lock themselves in the bathroom.
No one will break furniture, grind chips
into the rug, throw anyone else in the pool
or lose an earring in the couch.
I do not have to run a guest house, either.
There will be no crackling fire
and no easy chairs. I will not serve
tea to the visitors. I will not dispense
ginger snaps and ask my guests
about themselves:
“Did my mother send you?”
“Why must you plague me?”
“Why not stay awhile longer?”
“Who are you, really?”
If I must welcome – and I am convinced I must –
Let me build a great hall to receive my guests.
Like a Greek temple, let it be open on all sides.
Let it be wide, and bright, and empty.
Let it have a marble floor:
Beautiful – and cold, and hard.
Let there be no sofas, no benches, no dark corners,
no anterooms and no coat closets.
No walls, not even a ledge to lean against.
I’ll welcome anyone who comes,
I’ll show them my enormous empty hall.
Come in, come in, I’ll say. I’ll even smile,
perhaps make a conversation for awhile.
And if someone settles on the floor, as if to stay,
or circles round and round, as if they’ve lost their way
I’ll be kind, extend my hand,
and gently show them out again.
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