Pepper paste stamps
her crimson. It seeps up
her wrists, forearms, elbows,
so I leave. From my room
I imagine her knee deep
in the kimchi, nestled against
the steel bowl filled
with cabbages painted red.
She sprinkles the pepper flakes
speckling her skin.
She massages her temples with paste caked hands
kneading color into each hair
depleted of its blackness.
I walk downstairs & peer into the kitchen.
Her hands—only
her hands disappear
between the flakes & minced prawns.
Pruned fingers lift each layer of leaves
lathing the kimchi
as if stroking my hair.
I twist five glass jars open,
line them up along the table,
& watch how she cradles each cabbage,
laying them down in glass every winter.
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