I Hold Your Hand in Mine When Some Memory Writes it's Way Back in”


Digital, Charcoal, & Oil Paint




Republic of Georgia, 2020


Prints available

In the backseat of your Buick, the burn of the ashtray residue
burrows into the fabric cushions. Molting leather trim clings
to everything, to the sleeve of my new fur coat, of your fur coat
though it is not winter and no one is coming for us

We wait, though the driver has long abandoned the car
I am a spyglass carved against the roof of your past;
your eyes expand, they mistake the whiteness of the sand for snow,
and we wait though the street is empty and has been for years

Only you can’t remember that or that it’s not winter,
you can’t remember “ojczyzna” your homeland,
you have forgotten the words to say “No”
You have forgotten how to quit so many things

In your determination to resurrect yourself, you bring
the matchbook to an already lit cigarette, strike the bony stem
between the grit, you tear off flames, and I hold your hand in mine
when some memory writhes its’ way back in.