It was a useful definition of home
until I realised I’d left a ventricle
at university, along with my raincoat.
There’s one aorta in my childhood bedroom,
a chunk of cardiac muscle in my friend’s pocket,
and another in my housemate’s rucksack.
Arteries stretch out from this body
like tripwires, connecting me
to small towns I only know by name.
From your end of the phone
I hear this scattered organ,
beating louder than ever.