The exhibition

You number your paintings from one to twelve
It’s the first time you tell the full story
Of how death came from the sky, wiped out all you knew and loved
How you made your way to the sea, the only surface that wasn’t on fire

When they ask you why you are here, you stare at painting one
Because the fire is not where your story begins
Your first painting  is a memory of a forest
The life of a land untouched by whiteness
Before the plantations, the oil mines, before,
All the things no one talks about.

Guests tell you, you are gifted, try to talk to you
But you are not a talker, you only speak in portraits
I know what that feels like, I speak in alphabet
No one will ever know all you lost in that fire
But I hope someone asks you about things you kept
The dignity of a human,
Knowledge from a past that matters.