Not a flat.
Not an apartment in back.
Not a man's house.
Not a daddy's.
A house all my own,
With my porch and my pillow.
My pretty purple petunias.
My books and my stories.
My two shoes waiting beside the bed.
Nobody to shake a stick at.
Nobody's garbage to pick after.
Only a house quiet as snow,
a space for myself to go,
clean as paper before poem.
A HOUSE ON MANGO STREET, Sandra Cisneros
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