LEX WURTH

Poetry

1930

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.”