Home is where the heart is so I dig
a heart-shaped hole and stash his heart away
beneath the rug I made and lock the door
and nail the windows shut and pat the pig
that gets me through the winter, do not say
whose blood it is that’s spattered on the floor.

Home is our beginning so I start
to plaster up the sixteen bullet holes
that make a constellation on the wall.
Violence is necessity, not art.
Vodka I consume till vodka flows
through veins that bleed till I have killed them all.

Home is where the children of the state
reserve a plot to die in. When I die,
secure in my home, I’ll remember when
we danced around a fire, how we ate
the pig that made this pig. I need to try
to eat again tonight. Drink vodka. Then