Ketevan

Thus do I still utter the name and still feel the burn on the cheeks.

Paul Celan, “A Song in the Desert”

She says her name is Ketevan. Where

are you from, I ask. Originally, catching

myself, don’t want to be rude and she

shifts her eyes. Hesitant, says, Georgia.

Tbilisi? I ask and she is surprised, till

I say I lived in Russia and she says she

speaks Russian and we talk about lobio

and khachapuri and Pirosmani—my

favorite Georgian restaurant in Petersburg

named for the painter Niko Pirosmani.

Copies of his paintings covered the walls

I tell her. And the wine, oh the wine. How

long is the ride I ask and she says forty-five

minutes. Most likely. Why are you in NY

she asks and I tell her I am here visiting

my daughters and she says she has

two children, two and three years old,

born just after arriving. I tell her I

live in Israel and she says she worked

for El Al in Georgia. Ten minutes or so

in and already we talk war. And kids.

And then we roll up our sleeves, get down

to it. What we are really talking about.

We all just want to feel safe, she says.

In our skin, in our homes, on the ground

I say. Even in a cab she says, a

Georgian man was shot two days ago.

Uber driver in Brighton Beach. Just

shot, they caught the guy. But why?

I came here from war and turmoil and

now I live with fear all the time, she

says. I say I’m glad she has her family, she

says she just got divorced. Her husband

could not handle the change. I have

two children, don’t need another, so now

I drive, but at least I’m free, she says.

You are so brave I say, we all deserve

to feel free, she says. And safe I say.

And we know we are talking about

more than ICE and war and bombs

and poverty. We are talking people.

Who don’t see us, who swallow up

space. I ask what her name means and

she says king’s wife. But I am no

king’s wife. You are no king’s wife

I agree. We are here she says, pulls

up in front of my daughter’s Crown

Heights flat. She gets out, pulls

out my bag and wordless we hold

each other. And tears fill our eyes.

A fullness, a kind of remembering.