I raise a glass of Aldi malbec to the patchwork
tapestry that threads me back to you. To learning
to read in your womb and spell to the beat

of ‘Back to Black’ over tarot for tea – served
at the dining table (that cornerstone of Facebook
Marketplace couture) you scoured from ash

to mauve-matte; clashing plum under
placemats while we contort a sofa
up the stairs. With floors torn from

under feet, we retreat to walls warmed
in fuchsia – to Kahlo constellations, to The Three Ages of
Woman poised in the kiss of your gold-leaf phase.

And she revels in the ruby of no place
like our kitchen at 3am. Tonight, we’ll splash
John Denver over this salt-worn town

amidst drowned, suspended
hours, and watch emerald threaten
to unpick the bricks you bound.

Though ivy creeps, you keep
your incense lit. Spill wine 
and refuse to be snuffed out. 

And so, when I return to pack and find speckled
skirting boards – 151 on bone – I recall
you painting our landing orange at a whim

in jeans now tinted tangerine,
no dust sheets in sight. ∎

 

Words by Nicole Gibbons. Art by Dowon Jung.