HOME IS NOT WHERE THE HEART IS
If home was where the heart is,
mine would be
about as big as the palm of his hand.
Home is where your rituals are.
Home has food and a bed.
Home is your survival.
Home is the four walls you don’t
notice unless you’ve woken up
and they’re painted red.
Home is not poetic
or even lovely.
Home is simply a house.
Home is not where the heart is,
that’s heaven.
—from 2016 Rattle Young Poets Anthology
