St. Peter Doesn’t Even Go Here

They said Heaven had a guest list.
I said, “Put me down as plus one with unresolved trauma.”
Saint Peter clutched the Book of Life like it was a Dior clutch and told me to take it up with Management.

He had a clipboard.
I had questions.
Why is Judas getting table service, but my gay ass has to wait in the vestibule?
He called me “irregular.”
I said “irregular like Joan of Arc or irregular like y’all can’t handle a bitch in boots and moral nuance?”

He said the gates are pearly.
I said they look like mall kiosk costume jewelry.
He didn’t laugh.
He never laughs.
Probably because joy isn’t doctrine.
Inside, it’s all the saints I never prayed to and none of the girls I kissed behind the youth center.

Mary Magdalene’s mixing cocktails.
Saint Dymphna’s lighting her last cigarette.
Jesus is DJ’ing and turning holy water into champagne because He knows I like it bubbly.
I’m at the threshold, wearing fishnets and forgiveness, with a flask of unresolved father issues and a rosary I use like brass knuckles.
Saint Peter eyes me like sin with eyeliner.

I tell him I’ve been to Hell already — it was called 7th grade religion class.
They gave me detention for asking if Mary had a therapist.
He flips to my name, grimaces like it tastes queer.
Says something about purgatory.
I tell him: I’m done with waiting rooms.

God parts the clouds like a drama queen with perfect timing.
She looks like every woman I’ve ever loved and none of the priests who ever told me to sit down and smile.
She says, “let her in, she’s funny” and Saint Peter sulks like a boy who got ratioed by a parable.
Now I haunt the kingdom with a glittering grudge.

If you see me near the gates, know this:
I did not beg for entry.
I made a scene.

Saint Peter?
He doesn’t even go here.
But I do.
And I brought snacks.