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JENNY TUNEDAL WHAT REMAINS IS A PORTRAIT I lie down in bed In daylight I can look closely at the walls A totally gray ocean, a graywhite sky, two sisters positioned on a beach without sand Perhaps they are small rocks Long rows of stones that are gray and look like churchyards One of the children has no face As if it had been cut out of the painting or was not needed Clouds instead of facial features Wind instead of a gaze As when someone can see — or cannot remember at all — or cannot stand it — Straight through someone — who belongs to them She cannot look back The second child is my sister Her eyes and lips are painted The horizon line goes straight through the body as in a performance of blood ties A wornout child or an old picture A bit weak or violent The sky reflected in a rough sea She must be cold and freezing The moon straight through my face Why do they say annihilated What do they mean by lost Children don't say no Maybe they want to stay on beaches forever It was actually my dad who painted the picture He was kind of weak |