In the drab walled room in the attic

I peer from the spotted mirror

in the cavernous dressing table.

Ochre lit.

Out of the sooty window

the ice of muslin flapping wetly

the street  all oil cloth and patent roofs

I am corset bound and flesh-pinched

white and soft above and below

all singed curls and droppered earrings,

peeping coyly

hiding the disease and wrapping myself in virtue.

But when you leave with your stare and tut and all the dead relatives

withdraw to their paintings

I claw myself bloody.