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      December 10, 2019Gustavo HernandezClapboard

      In second grade I winged definitions
      because I couldn’t find a dictionary
      among the hand-me downs people
      left in the house we moved into.
       
      I described a wallet best I could:
      the loose crease, the torn
      corners. Fruit only shapes
      and colors absent continents
       
      of origin. The house on Spruce
      with its two rooms for seven
      people never promised more
      than what it first contained,
       
      but taught us to create space—
      knees on the green carpet with
      a notebook split open
      on the edge of a mattress,
       
      prayer and sewing taken up
      at the kitchen table. Rough
      shingles, drumming rain
      gutters. In a way a house
       
      never stops protecting us.
      I can still see its lamp
      shorting out, and my family
      walking in the dark, feeling
       
      our way around. Doing pretty well.

      from Poets Respond

      Gustavo Hernandez

      “Most of the time the media feeds us an image of homelessness that doesn’t take into account its many faces. Reading about the number of homeless children who are trying to get an education made me think of how fortunate I was that my parents, although struggling, were always able to keep a roof over my head during my formative years. This poem expresses gratitude to our tiny haven and reinforces the importance of having a place to call home.”

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