top of page

a ghazal for home

if there is a room that breathes in this home,

where are the porous walls that hold this home?


some places are only familiar when they hurt and hold.

is my dead mother god now? she cried in the kitchen at home.


if there are rooms that spill like hearts - cover the floor with blood, 

an invasion into valves, attics that drip, pouring inside of these homes.


thieves & lovers & grief that trickle against the window.

what is held that leaks in the rupture of the heart in this home?


if I bleed, is it lovely? does it overflow out into the sun?

every new transition, bittersweet to a coagulated shine, a new home.


i pour and take the shape of these traumas - my home

is a long phrase i can only say in any dark room.


the walls are my skin and crumbling with scars -

find a holy place to hide - at the altar in my room at home.


it’s not a church but my loss prays for belonging - it’s

a bed & a desk & a lamp that glows outward of this home.


nine times i said my name nine times in a new room, so

sing it as brightly as the streetlights dance into this home.


take me there and keep me here in this room. build me into healing.

every time, this place is mine - i reclaim these homes.

bottom of page