January 28 - March 4, 2017

Ira Eduardovna 


Press Release

Here and there, a tremor. Traces of a heartbeat. The imperfect long gone. Against the shifting partitions, in twilight, a dream redux, the custodian of ashes collecting itself among the even less perfect recall. The faint cry of widowed swan has been heard. Is it the familiar piece of rope? I considered kicking myself afterward, as he or she would have done easily enough. That must have been, well, the end. A laugh even, finally. The bird bore a witness, gliding on black ink, then spins, stumbles, breaking tenderly. The ray of light strewn in harsh display, no less, on a body. These imaginable sightings, in midsummer, as we’re covered in thin film of perspiration, heralded the visitors. They’re as reliable as a corpse. When the sole entrance opened occasionally by the custodian, there sounded an uncertain note. No one could say. It’s only, more or less, reassured by the shadows, in fact, mostly shadows. Or again nothing at all, in fact. One evening, he or she too disappeared. ­The parched fingers, I scratched and scoured this or that piece of the remainder. A mere line would have done it, possibly. It’s all gone however, too long gone, as a matter of fact. Useless, the foliage, that too, I struggled to retrieve now, forming a grey sheaths of powder, to what could have been just so close to that body. Its ashes.

-Joyce Kim


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