t here eyes

She told them Write about
your home You have three
minutes Don't
think Just write
Why did she hope
they would write My home
is the sliver of light that falls
from a waning
crescent moon
white
cold and pointy My
home is beneath a tent of wet
green vines My home
is microscopic crystals
of silica pocked by the scuffling
of sand fleas? They wrote
My home is my bed
when I'm tired my
home is my grandma's beans
and rice My home is
a house with white siding with a fence
that keeps my dog safe my little brother
safe If
someone asked her but
no one did
she would have said pretty much
the same that
My narrow
room with the sputtering
fire the white porch
roof slanting away
from the front windows
the loveseat he prefers for reading
or playing guitar or
the steep cuts
of the Pacific coast
the grassless yards
the smell of pink roses in his
grandmother's vase
before the fire where
her father and she
had wine
that home is
there
with a good bed or with
kind ghosts a fireplace or
not with books
always with books with
snow or fog a moon
waxing or waning
or full or
plummeting
to the sea
a clumsy hand
pushing her hair
behind her ear
telling her I
am here now I
think you
are beautiful and
the specific
the clear
these
the only
things that matter the
colors of home of
home
of home eyes
blue brown
hazel
grey.