Home is a heart,        is spring silverfish, spring
cockroach.                  Home thicks in the middle.
Home could use some attention.        Home is broken
can openers (three),              is doors that don’t hang
square in the frames—open up or down
instead of out, or not at all.                        Home eats a salad
                                             with too much dressing
Home loses a job and writes poems,
smacks, waxes, crumbles, peels, like bathtub skin—
huge watery blister.                  Home is someone in the kitchen
frying eggs in butter.                              Home is a millstone,
is space rock floating behind the moon.
Home’s a pile of sugar so high you can sled down it,
it blows up      because there’s a meth lab inside.
Home collects orange peels
behind the trashcan by the nightstand,
itches between the shoulder blades until I scratch it.
Home is good at fucking.
Home is a bone.                warmer, is an open
envelope with the wrong name on it
Home can’t remember the last time home felt like themself.
Home opens –not yet, but they do.                        Home quiets
like the A at a certain time of day, once children
                                         are gone and it’s just everyone else
too tired to make noise or hear noise. Home is an oil slick
in the shape of my father,                  is a match
held over my father’s head.          Home churched,
had beams of singing and sits in a strip mall.
Home is white, is fragile, needs to be torn down.
Home is something, maybe.
Home nestles like small mammals.       Home hasn’t cried
about not being themself lately, has too much to do.
Home owes somebody.                          Home is a faggot.
Home is queer as fuck.
Home wears dresses without shaving their beard.
Home is a Russian salmon pie.
we make again with more cream this time,
is an exact number of cards. Home can see the future,
can be seen through the future like an old movie
they’re remaking poorly.                 Home isn’t drunk, but wants
to be.                      Home is a type-face.
you can’t name in a book you love,
is a shitty poem.            You like
home for no reason you can figure.
Home is part of speech,           can be spoken
again, again, opening like gills like water like hook.