We dragged you from a yellow house
to my family home, passing potholes that held
secrets in cloudy orange clay.
I poured you red wine in my mother’s
cup and unfurled a yoga mat,
the bends of spines and twists of waists
were knives that sliced pumpkin-eyed slits
onto our fingertips, to spell iron-bound pacts
of unspoken words stitched to our lips.
How far can one person stretch before they snap?
From down-dog to pigeon, your head bowed and fell
like rolling marble on sloped table.
A few days earlier your father was found
face-down, floating in heaven. I always said October
felt like something I couldn’t put my finger on,
bright grey days that pushed the light away.
Áine Rose is an artist and poet from Donegal, Ireland. She has a bachelor’s degree in Speech & Language Therapy from Trinity College, Dublin (2017) and a postgraduate fine-art degree from the Burren College of Art, Ballyvaughan, Clare (2021). She has been awarded the Emerging Artist Bursary Award from Arts & Health funded by Irish Health Service & Irish Arts Council (2022). Her work has appeared in Lothlorien Journal, Morning Fruit, Icarus, A New Ulster & Irish Arts Review.