“I dwell in Possibility—”
body has a right
to shelter in a home.
To be safe from cold, the heat,
We want a house built by the people / we want walls of justice /
we want liberation / we want windows and doors of possibility /
look outside / in a world where everyone has a home /
anything is possible / how do we transform /
“Home is where the heart is.” The heart is the size of your fist.
Some things are worth fighting for.
Homelessness is not a choice.
Criminalizing survival is unconstitutional.
my body is made of rooms of memory—
my body is made of hallways—
my body does not remember—
my body remembers everything
Here is my skin. Imagine all of the things I have touched.
Here are my bones.
I do not remember leaving the dwelling of my mother’s body.
I do not remember being born.
What does it mean to care for another?
Liza Sparks (she/her) is an intersectional feminist, writer, poet, and creative. She is a brown-multiracial-queer-woman living and working in Colorado. Her work has appeared with Ghost City Review, Bozalta Collective, Cosmonauts Avenue, and many others; and is forthcoming with Honey Literary, Split This Rock’s social justice database—The Quarry, and will be included in Nonwhite and Woman Anthology published by Woodhall Press in 2022. Liza was a semifinalist for Button Poetry’s Chapbook contest in 2018 and was a finalist for Denver Lighthouse Writers Workshop Emerging Writer Fellowship in Poetry in 2020 and 2019. She is a poetry reader for The Chestnut Review. You can read more of Liza’s work at lizasparks.com, IG @sparksliza534, or TW @lizathepoet.
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.