Home Is

Home is where photos of Tokyo at night hang.

Home is where my wooden Patagonian tablas for fiambres y quesos rest.

Home is where little green plants grow out of gourds and planters.

Home is where my Cholula is.

Home is where the evening sky becomes a purpley, yellow-orange haze for the window gazer.

Home is where my mate gourd sits unused, awaiting my Argentine homestay sister’s arrival.

Home is where the fridge is stocked with kale, oranges, and a hunk of parmesano reggiano.

Home is where feng shui texts sit, next to a Chinese compass and an architect’s ruler.

Home is where Astor Piazzolla, Flying Lotus, and Lisa Shaw sounds reverberate.

Home is where the palo santo burns.