Built from brick, from stucco, from logs
planed smooth or not. We fashion it from stone,
from blocks of ice, animal skins. From bamboo or sod,
from the bark of elm trees. It is high above the city.
It is nestled among trees. Dug into red hills.

Home is the skin we grew into and out of. A baby’s cry,
a man’s rattling snore. It’s arguments and fevers,
rituals and ribbons. A song that Mother sang
late at night. Home is a tattered box, red
and heart-shaped, one that remembers a dozen sweets.

Photographs of ancestors, the bent pages of books,
milk stains. Window glass streaked with rain.
Some nights dreams wander around home like ghosts
picking up grapefruits, squeezing them a little, putting them down.
And if you have left, Come home, say the ghosts, come home.


This poem first appeared in Blue Heron Review.
Used here with permission.