MacDougal Street: Old-Law Tenements | The Nation


MacDougal Street: Old-Law Tenements

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We're aware in every nerve end of our tenement's
hand-mortared Jersey brick, the plumbing's
dripping dew-points, the electric running Direct,
and on each landing four hall-johns fitted

About the Author

Anne Winters
Anne Winters's The Displaced of Capital won the 2005 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.

Also by the Author

Pasted bumpily on brick, life-sized. Inside,
in a former foundry's casting vault, my father in the role
of Agamemnon died. A thin-browed bronze mask skating

"A shift in the structure of experience..."
As I pass down Broadway this misty late-winter morning,
the city is ever alluring, but thousands of miles to the south

to the specifics and minima of the 1879
Tenement Housing Act. We lived in its clauses
and parentheses, that drew up steep stairways
and filled the brown airwells with eyebrowed

windows. Unwhistling, the midwinter radiator
lists in its pool of rust. A lightcord winds
through its light chain; from a plasterless ceiling-slat

topples a roach, with its shadow. Downstairs, our Sicilian widow
beats the cold ribs with a long-handled skillet,
and faucets drum in twenty old-law flats.

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