Forgive, 2024 | Screenprinted book edition, bound with hand-dyed fabric & thread
Forgive, 2024 | Screenprinted book edition, bound with hand-dyed fabric & thread
I do not remember your hands on me, but I remember the fish you plucked from the pond frying on the black lava asphalt
Its blank stare as hollow as the plastic wrapped fish head carcasses in the meat isle. I used to poke their Saran eyes jelly. I was just a child. I suppose you were too.
My skin has since shed 85 times and my memory is now rust. I am unsure on forgiveness.
Unless forgiveness is just moving on. Then I have forgiven enough. (Will this earth forgive us for its mutilation?)
I pluck a handful of grass from the ground knowing the grass will always grow back. There is an assumption that time heals.
In one way or another. Still, the memory resides in a mass of minds.
Can we ever shed the handprints?
The run off? The skeletons now oil ablaze?
I want to believe in forgiveness. I want to believe we can heal this wound
that we have dug so deep.