Shelter
By Jon Pineda

Have you forgotten the way my face winced at my father
when, instead of shaking your hand, he walked off sputtering
mestizo in a language I knew you didn’t understand?
I have closed a small space of my heart, packed it
with jars of figs, canned tomatoes, blankets & jugs
of fresh water. We could open them, dip our fingers
first into the preserves & then into each other’s mouth.
Inside these walls, under blankets, we could wait
for the storm.

© Jon Pineda