The House

It's where
my mother and father are.

It's where my father works
cutting thread
chalking cloth.
making shapes
out of the shapeless.

It's where my mother cleans
gets down on her knees
in the kitchen
she fluffy dusts
the lampshades and
schooms up dirt from the stairs.

It's where I used to live
until I was nineteen.
It's where I wrote
'I hate myself' in my diary

many times.

It's where I came back to
after travels.
Because it was easy.

It's where I sulked
and stopped talking
for days
and made my mother
go out of her mind
so that one day she
wrote me a note.

It's where I spent
a year recovering from
illness.
It's where my mother
helped me put my clothes
on when I could hardly stand.

It's where I go
knowing there is love.
wanting it to be there
always.