By: Amal Lucerne

Georgia has no visions
of lighthouse battles in May
or of damp mongols crooning underneath
a swarm of moonlight wraiths
laughing beyond the chair-snaps
consumptive and withering

Georgia has no illusions
of a hurried walk untaken
or adamance
unrequited

has no memories
of her daughters
sold
for just one
insipid draught
of reality