Blueprint: Bramble Tce
By Zenobia Frost
1.
the last time I came here
I didn’t need to break in
at some stage of cobbled history
the house was raised with a staircase
for a new spine
glass blue-bottle bricks
fling light on the deck
its midden of scraps
crumbling under the laundry chute
its ottoman bereft of empire
under that staircase
a two-way cupboard
the way in between drywall and vine
glass wool and fungal lace
the Hills Hoist a skeletal rotunda
where bats dry out like lingerie
2.
tiny green tiles
repeat in the hallway
a tray of jade mochi
from the bedroom
fern-green cathedral glass
a bulb burns
inside an avocado
a crumpled pink doona
in the shape of a human body
between rooms a window
opens like a toy theatre
frames a tableau of decay
a tower of pizza boxes
by the corpse of a sofa
its antique smell of bong water
the mattresses have bred since my last visit
propped up against woodstove
a faded auction sign
the blueprint of when
this address breathed
I touch my finger
to the spot that marks here
rub away the mildew
polish myself into the map
3.
I only slept here once
upstairs on the floor
all the lamps dimmed
the room burnt
cinnamon umber
the kitchen is shelved
with chicken wire
hutches cradling mismatched dishes
an empty cereal box
and a jar of deflated bath oil beads
oven chips abandoned on the cooktop
like severed fingers
a map on the wall from 1995
shows all the Brisbane I have lived since
out the window
the verandah begins to sway
4.
in the bathroom
with its slippery-dip chute
a red ironbark blooms in the tiles
flame red on eucalypt green
blue on bluer blue
this mosaic outlives Pompeii
sings vivid in the dust
I try the water
a mirror’s extendable arm
5.
after the demolition
the casement windows extracted
like gold teeth
stashed behind the jacaranda
where the old auction sign
presses into soil at the trunk’s base