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Tenement Building (black & white photograph)
Chris Kilip, Tate Britain, 2014
you view the house from across the street
part of a terrace it fills the frame
the roof is cut off no sky dim light
upstairs a balcony
After you died, Nana, I went to your room,
it was dark like that place beneath the breakwater
where barnacles cling and children never dare hide
I opened a blind, a stuck window, breeze fanned
and fanned the room, light across your dressing-
table, triple mirrors. Amidst perfume bottles,
hairbrush, amber beads, your art deco box,
walnut with inlaid mothe ...
Sadness overwhelms me in this circle of cut
flowers; some face me, plead for help, but if
I were to cradle one tulip-heavy head in my palm
like a premature baby, would its petals (that remind
me of my mother's skin when she was old) fall
to the floor? Others turn away in a dried blush
of shame. Just a few plump bodies flaunt sheen
on velvet cloaks, ye ...