My kettle gives me joy. It’s the one thing I can rely on.

Home is where your electric kettle is.

Once I let an angry boy kiss me in Central Park. It was dark and snowy.

Then warm and soft.

I never saw him again.

I hadn’t bought my kettle yet, so the world felt hard and hostile.

My mug

is made of porcelain

but it looks like one of those paper cups you get at Starbucks,

with your name scribbled on. 

After a couple of times I stopped telling them my confusing name. 

My cups have just a V.