Cromwell Avenue
Hannah Tuson

What happened to all the locals? They've been ripped out
like everything else, haven't they? Like Cromwell Avenue, for
the 21st century, for stainless steel kitchens with Formica tops.
I'll never forget those council officers poking round our lounge

whilst we were having dinner, and in a matter of days, with their
word of God, home was a slum for the bulldozer's teeth, replaced
by a high rise where no one called round for a cup of tea, that
made us take pills and jump from the windows. Something bad

happened here that keeps recurring, you say, something
demonic. We watch you preach at drunks on their benches, make
the sign of the cross at tower blocks, sprinkle the high street with
holy water. My mum had lovely curtains, was always washing

her step, they all were, proud in their pinnies, and this was it,
here, where that garage is, that was our kitchen. If you close your
eyes, there's her lavender perfume. Can you smell it?

Hannah Tuson's poetry and fiction has been published or is forthcoming in Message in a Bottle, Cadaverine Magazine, Mslexia, Ink, Sweat & Tears, South Bank Poetry magazine and elsewhere.

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