Painted Bride Quarterly has published a new poem by Henry.
Henry Hughes After We Lost the House the deck I built, your mother’s plantings, blossoms and birds carved into closet doors for the room you were gonna paint purple. It all went red on my half-time, then Mom got sick and the car died. Winter gnawed through that drafty trailer and the drunk-ruckus apartment on Ninth, until I got the other job and this place, where you can walk to school and help Mom sow a small garden. The landlord doesn’t want a handyman, just a check every month. But at night, in the garage over a makeshift bench, I build birdhouses— top-grade plywood, stainless steel screws, tin-faced nesting holes nothing’ll chew through.