Untitled [A house just like his mother’s]
A house just like his mother’s, But made of words. Everything he could remember Inside it: Parrots and a bowl Of peaches, and the bright rug His grandmother wove. Shadows also—mysteries And secrets. Corridors Only ghosts patrol. And did I mention Strawberry jam and toast? Did I mention That everyone he loved Lives there now, In that poem He called “My Mother’s House?”
From City of Poetry by Gregory Orr. Copyright © 2012 by Gregory Orr. Reprinted with permission of Sarabande Books, Inc. All rights reserved.