Poetry
1930 Lex Wurth Lifting her skirt, underwear to boys for a quarter. Spent it on a popsicle for her kid brother. She muddied her dresses and ate peanuts out of barrels. Swinging on a wooden plank that was strung to an oak tree. Chasing a pack of boys, she swung her belted books at the one who blacked her brother’s eye.
GERALDINE Lex Wurth ink, fingerprints “This piece is a part of a series of works where I create portraits of my grandparents and ancestors out of fingerprints.”
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KIOSK2021
