Where the Hearth Is

My father’s home
is not my mother’s
and yet, my home is theirs too.
I share their walls, and they
share my doors, but
our lights don’t have the same hue.
The carpet between our toes
don’t rub the same places,
nor do the scars in the bathtub
draw the same lines.
I trace the differences
between their clock faces, and
the dim ones in my mind.
My mother basks in
a hand of heat
around her throat,
and starched-white music notes.
And my father wallows
in a leaf-cool breeze,
fruits like ice wine
and all the apricity he can swallow.
I make my home
under the sheets
with a long-dead torch,
rolling a rubber wedding band. And
though our homes
aren’t one for all –
I know they’ve been drawn by the same hand.
For those with different homes, living in the same houses

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