a house is the sine curve
of your turbulence.
its peaks and troughs

mirrors the flight of
shuttlecocks in the
living room, growing up.

when i was twelve, you
laid Ma's body here,
our court a meeting

point for last embraces.
at twenty i located
another her, drew

a bisecting line;
our paths furcating.
what remains: you

tangent to home,
at the intersection
of all our axes.