My Father’s House (a poem)

*Poem #6*

There are some
who come to my church
each day
seeking shelter,
food, and warmth.
We call them guests.
There’s meant to be
hospitality
in it,
I know.

But I admit
I’ve never been
entirely comfortable
with the idea.
Because what does
That make us?

It seems to me
that whatever they are,
we should be the same.
All guests
or all just
children of God
come home.

I guess it matters less
what words we use
than how we see.

I always see
my father:
shivering in a broken down car
a few miles
from the warmth of my own
childhood bed.

It all felt so big to me then,
so beyond me
to even approach,
forget fix.
It still does.

Every weathered face I see
and the absurd impulse
to say something light, like,
“Stay warm out there,”
make me still that worried child
overwhelmed by
what hurts.

The space between
our realities
is the chasm
of brokenness
running through
this world.

We need so much
more than a bridge
to mend this gap,
but sometimes I feel like
all I have
is popsicle sticks.

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One thought on “My Father’s House (a poem)

  1. Pingback: All The Poems I Wrote in Lent | Reverend Fem

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