Magnolia walls,
all four and counting,
breathe with us now,
they know us now,
so much so
our skin begins to match:
a canvas
on which you compare me
to every fruit the supermarket
did not have, every flower
you haven’t seen,
every sunset discoloured
by the evening news.
Just magnolia is left,
off white and boarded
by the skirting we’ve dusted
more times than we’ve kissed
in the last seven days.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020
