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Kathleen Kenny

Now there is only this:

The lilt of lavender powder
you spilled.

Six dining chairs:
still with our initials chalked on each base.

This shock of space: your wardrobe
and chest of drawers, empty.

The sound of our sideboard;
its doors and drawers:

yours is hint of perfumed gloves,
Basildon Bond and Quink;

rows of blue letters
I’d always be quick to investigate.

This one lined with emerald felt
holds the smell of Woodbines

and shaving soap, and the coins
Dad kept for his tenants’ meters.

That Golden Virginia tin
always full of shillings,

always with my fingers in.  



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