If I wrote an acrostic poem about home
all I know is the ‘m’ would stand for mom
and ‘h’ would not be for house
because if I learned anything from shakespeare
it’s that a house is a place where clouds can lour
and home is a place inside of us where 
the rain cannot reach. 


If I drew a picture of home
it would look like a swirl of colors
because warmth is a feeling that you can’t see
but if you could it would be the love child that 
sunsets and embers have when they mix
And comfort is whatever color your couch is
Security, the shade of your walls. 
Happiness has no hue 
because, like light, it reflects all
that surrounds it. 


If I wrote a song about home
the refrain would be 
a chorus line of loved ones
and each stanza would be 
memories set to music.
My favorite moments 
rhyming with one another
to a tune you can dance to.


If I wrote a book about home
Some pages would just have one sentence
One important memory frozen in time
but alive through my words
and some entries would go on for pages.


I would write a chapter about 
my first encounter with the ocean
How my dad carried my sister
and me into the water until
we were up to our necks in salt and wonder


I would write a chapter about
the summer nights when my whole family
took turns trying to out-hop each other
on a pogo stick
family vacations in pop up trailers
with killer pool flies, board games,
and a table that turned into a bed
Long car rides with movies and nintendo
taking my headphones out
to hear my parents laughing 
together in the front seats


I would write about hugging my mom
sometimes with the intensity
of every heartache I’ve ever known
and sometimes just to show I’m sorry
and sometimes to say I’ll miss you.


I would write about church giggles with my sister,
daggers shooting from my mom’s eyes
never sharp enough to deflate our delight.
The selflessness that, of three siblings,
only my sister inherited


The pride I feel when I make my dad laugh
The pride I feel when I hear stories
about how much my brother’s grown up.
The pride I feel when either of them make music.


My aunt’s laugh.
My papa’s hugs.
Fighting, as kids, over who gets to sit 
next to visiting grandmothers.
My dad’s cooking.
Making Christmas cookies with mom.
Sleeping on the back deck and waking with the sun.


I’d write about
The people in my life who mean as much as family.
The ones I’ve always known,
and the ones I’ve known shortly,
but took barely more time to learn their name
than it did to learn they’d be around forever.


I’d write about the love of a husband
who always makes me laugh
and never makes me cry
but holds me when I do. 
Whose lips have earned
my last kiss.


If I wrote a poem about home,
It would look like this.