Stainless steel,
granite countertops,
crowded cabinets,
and branded appliances.

Whirring,
clanking,
beeps and whistles.

All ours is not.

You won’t find my heart there:
left to be abandoned in a lonely corner,
only greeting soles on holidays,
when arms are forced to open to guests
and lips are stretched to reveal lying whites
because deep darks abided in our chests.

You’ll find it in enclosed in the hall.
Confined, airless, even claustrophobic.
But there are no cobwebs here.
No mildew, no rust,
no crumbs or dust.

You’ll find it underneath the floorboards,
creaking with every footstep,
playing the chords that made up the rhythms and beats
of systolic and diastolic melodies.

You’ll find it in the windowsill,
planted with the succulents,
resilient to forgetful hands
and yet affectionate to sunbeams
who pulsed perfectly.

There are days when the sunshine feels insensitive.
But it is in every throb and rise, murmur and fall,
that life floods in.

It’s funny to me when people say the kitchen is the heart of the home.
If it was, my heart would be empty.

*—S.C., September 23, 2015