Home is a spell I cast whenever I feel I have none. I live, for now, in a cabin in the woods, behind the house my octogenarian landlady grew up in, rented month-to-month, paid for in part with cheese danishes and sweet tea. The cottage is cupboard small. I share it with a cat, a mouse, many cockroaches. The yard is sand, too shadowed beneath the dense canopy to grow anything but moss, sparse weeds, a few poison red berries. The woods are littered with broken medicine bottles, rusted beer cans...