home.

I have forgotten all of my things. There are photographs and the rocks collected from campsites and mountains, beaches and gardens. There is my mattress standing like a cushioned soldier, ready to finally lay down again. It is wrapped up in protective gear to combat the bed bugs and Brooklyn mold. I forgot all about that wind chime, made from dog bone and twist of fingers. I missed that red-stained plank of wood, which balanced against boxes and got called desk. I’ll need to fold all those buttons and pockets attached to shirts and slacks. Do I really need all these papers and I will need another bookshelf to house all these spines. Here is the kitchen and there are the sinks. There is a painter here and maybe she will teach me her language. Over there is a music maker and I dream about nights where we can speak in the dialect of keys and chords. There are windows and here on this porch, I can uke. That fireplace no longer works, but we can balance art and an alter on its shelf. These walls are clean and shaded with a hue of welcome. You can call that bathtub. Call this communal table where meals may be shared and poems may gather. I haven’t had a couch in years and you can sleep here. I have forgotten all about my wok, given to me by a wonderful human in Connecticut and my spices, kept sacred in red pot. I didn’t realize I had all that brown rice and how about I dedicate this evening to alphabetizing my poetry books and separating genres of thought. I forgot home could feel this way. I forgot about that welcome mat, originally purchased for performance. But I can wipe my feet on this grass, synthetic but green. And I can call this home shared and safe and warm and Brooklyn.