Doors

 

You painted forty five women

On the doors to the gallery

We would like to walk through them

One day

Let our hands feel the carvings

Let each face speak to us

On the radio you said

It was a mixture of women

A nurse

Old 

Young

Different ethnicities 

How very clever 

Says Alice

Of course

I am already inside

She continues 

Looking out at all who see

Hoping that someone 

Like you 

Will find me

We eat Cherry Bakewell's 

For breakfast

We can because 

We are not women yet

We are both old and young 

Knowing but naive 

We wait in our own bed

For the day to end 

You will be in the world forever

Just like Alice

Except you are real

I would like you to draw my flesh

Carve out the lumps and scars

Make me real

But we are stuck here

In this tiny room

Forever dreaming

Jam grazing our lips. 

For Tracey Emin's Doors