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
