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.
The American Journal of Poetry has published two new poems by Henry.
Henry Hughes Our Drinking Exiled temptations, a cool glass of outerspace, a movie mobbed with friends. One more peach from the waxy box of overripe. We trip on egg shells and swab our knees with gin, caps spinning until our talked-off heads sag like diapers. Noon cleanups, the missing acres of last night, lights on, gate left open, dog run off. Memory’s slash and wince, thick woods and a stalled jeep. Asleep on the backseat, sweet child we never had.
Read Henry’s second poem in the journal.