Ankita is a Lon­don based poet (BAR poet) who has recently begun per­form­ing. Check out her stuff, and remem­ber her name!

 

Splinters

Home is where the heart is, but
if you look real close, you’ll see the blood
clot in the arteries.

It’s all fest­iv­ity on the out­side: fairy
lights on the freshly trimmed
Christ­mas tree, photos

strewn on bath­room walls,
the mantle piece. Homes are catalogued
by deck chairs and bed steads, all wood
and plaster and DIY.

But, if you squint your eyes, you’ll see
the slits through every slammed
door, the chop­ping board

behind the crys­tal cut fruit bowl,
the first times and last times lined up
like tomb stones wait­ing to come to life
every single fight, every single night.

Because rela­tion­ships lose value
as quickly as the five-seat­er in the driveway,
in the locked gar­age, in the scrapyard.

And they say: ‘Home is where the heart is’
but if you look real close, you’ll see the blood clots
in the arter­ies, and the

beat beat, beat beat, beat beat, slow
so much, there’s noth­ing there at all.