‘Home is where the heart is’, they say.
I wonder if they know that
Home is isn’t something defined by four walls,
Or even the people walking the messy halls
Of your memory and soul.
Home is a feeling, a sensation,
A grenade in your ribcage.
And they say all roads lead to Rome, but I say all roads lead to home
Because I have so many countryside cottages and uptown villas and seaside condos
That I don’t think I can count them anymore.
I find home that old-book smell and a childhood favourite’s stained yellow pages,
In shattered glass beads and broken necklaces;
In a yellow-faced, blue-paged notebook I turned into my poetry book
Way back in seventh grade,
In the flowing wet ink and temporary word tattoos;
In summer nothing-to-do attitudes with their shut curtains and sunlit bedrooms,
In the middle of God’s-oven afternoons;
In air-conditioner scent and feeling the wind
On my shivering skin;
In my mother’s arms and cocoa-powder evenings
Spent in the kitchen baking Friday cakes;
In the sky, pretending to be squid-ink when it’s really a dark blue string of poetry,
In the stars that I want to be: Beacon to lost souls.
Home is where the heart is,
And if that’s true, then my heart must be a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.
So baby break my heart the good way;
Take a shard from my beautifully shattered cage-bird glass heart
And embed it into your bones.
I want you to be
Another place my liquid-fire soul finds home.
— aakriti khosla