In the Petal Skirt-folds
all the darkness of this world is steeping within the skirt-folds of petals
Escherichia coli Fusobacterium nucleatum
Mycobacterium avium paratuberculosis
billions of bacteria live inside us
it takes one, under certain circumstances at a certain time,
and we are killed by an invisible odorless
unportended organism
my husband says he believes in the notion of a persistent gene geared for survival
that I am, he is, that we all are but sizeable hosts
laboratories ensuring the survival of particular dna
one cannot weigh the essence of life
even the most talented surgeon grasping at the essence of life through a microscope
risks it slipping through his fingers
all the darkness of this world is streaming from the sprouting buds
the navigation systems blinking in cars
the disposable gloves breaking in operating rooms
it soaks up all the lights of this world
and reflects them on the other side
i am my own pupil
dividing
in the eye of the universe
for my father
the sense of having a father
only struck me after he died
on the third day by the coffin
such softness and light overcame me
i realized how much his body had constrained him
during the funeral meal
i felt a message tingle inside
i was shy about passing it on,
uncomfortable speaking,
as if i were claiming the role of a priest or an elder
i had to remind myself that it is my father
who’s gone,
that i am one of the elders now
we are love in pure form
we are love unconstrained by the notions of time and space
we shine on in the dark
like the source, like the sea
that we finally enter
yet love with no body
is only words
so we choose to dive into the flesh
all those cells, membranes, and veins
to learn how to act as love, in addition to being
how long must we travel
to match our actions and thoughts
how long must we flounder, hurting others,
finding our voice, hands, and gender,
lifting the spoon to our mouths, turning the wheel,
clipping our nails, trimming our hair,
looking for someone to cuddle with, nestle into,
trying to understand why hugging a pillow is not enough,
why do we want to howl, kick, and scream,
why are children quick to be born yet so slow to learn,
why is a man not so different from a wolf,
why do we need all that stuff,
being electric,
why do we need electricity
i think
before he passed, my father had figured out
who he was, and who we all were
then there’s a pause at the crossroads,
and here i am by the tree
he chose to depart to,
causing
minimal damage
a cup with coffee grounds still on our childhood table
tire tracks across the road
his phone at the morgue, still smelling of him
black stitches across his body
the daffodils in his yard
still so fragrant
so fragrant – – –
2019 06 02 – 2022 06 05
A Poem for Two Voices: Me and Sylvia P.
Our hands have grown weary from resting in the gardens of fatigue –
Between our dreams, the laundry, and the keyboard,
Sex, fairy tales, and the long-depleted
Granary of love –
I feel us grow empty:
Žemaitė’s1Julija Žymantienė (1845-1921), who used the pen name Žemaitė, is a seminal Lithuanian writer known for vivid portrayals of peasant life, particularly the difficult experiences of women. wrinkles etching my forehead,
Lips closing into a dry purse
And thoughts, unstrung,
Rattling all over the body
We sip our tea
Pinkies out, smiles and underwear neatly pressed
Fragile porcelain on the table
We turn grimy
We nail our hearts to the mirrors
With the strings of desire:
No axe of a hunter
No fisherman’s spear
Shall carve out a river between our thighs
No one shall wade in
In the gardens of fatigue, our hair snarls into knots
We soak our routines in bleach
We smooth our children’s hair, mixing the dough,
The ovens start hissing –
And suddenly we grow free.
We are Not the Most Important Ones Here
in the middle of a meadow
i lay
naked
so windy today
last night a badger whimpered past me
today grasshoppers crown my hearing
ticklegrass casts fragile shades
on my body
i am decaying into the earth
becoming earth
coming back to
where it all had started
ferns carry 1260 pairs of chromosomes
ferns carry all the knowledge of life
of the entire earth
badgers pikes gorillas
your ancestors and mine
we are but fern shreds
spread throughout this
low probability
planet
self-important for some reason
convinced this is all for us
a hill full of badgers
who had been dwelling here before i wandered over
they will go on dwelling
digging caves in the fern thicket
raising the remains of the first peoples’ settlements
up into the sand
a pot shard a bone splinter
an ashen track across the badger’s back
in the middle of a meadow
i lay
decaying
a fern shred
Offeror
sometimes
i happen to buy a boiled pig’s trotter in maxima
a little embarrassed
i take the very end
of a hoof with joint remains
not deliberately
but usually
when there’s no one else at home
back home
i lay it on a wide platter
flicking a drop of horseradish next to it
a handful of sauerkraut
a slice of bread
i sit by the window
and feast by hand, by myself
notably, i only do this in the middle of fall
my gaze follows the maple leaves spun by the wind behind the glass
that separates me from these cultured spaces:
the library in the house in front
the insides of cars and trolleybuses
frozen in front of the red traffic light
the fashion outlet
my fingers trace the tendons
covered in soft jelly
the bones – bargain collagen –
the wisps of sauerkraut
i wouldn’t call this
particularly tasty
but it tastes well
but i am gently delighted
feeding some important
hidden or buried
part
of my self
this year i realized
that this is my ritual country mass
said for those who had poured into my veins
without my say-so
where and when have i learned this?
the wondrous bodily knowing:
light a candle
let the silence pour in
let them speak:
those who used to
feed
pet
slaughter the animals
cut the trees cut the fodder beets
cut the grass for the growing chicks
bowing humbly before
the lord of the manor or the well upon drawing water
blowing the heat off the bowl
in which they’d meet the gaze of salted burbots
their staffs prodding the sauerkraut
their staffs prodding the bottom of the nemunas2The Nemunas is the longest river in Lithuania.
looking for the missing child
looking for a newly formed pit
on the riverbed
now they stroke me
with their invisible hands
wrapping me in their love
wrapping me in the knowing
that the world is what it is
neither cruel nor pretty, not fair either
where it all begins
and ends
in blood and of blood
in equal part from the darkness and light
that i may finally stand straight
my back no longer burdened by
a sack of beets
a cart they pulled in the horse’s stead
a newborn’s breath after a night they’d rather forget
afterwards
i toss the pig’s trotter into the bin
a hurt pricks my heart
over not being able to bury it in my garden
in my land unable to feed it
to the dog keeping watch over the house
i make some tea
the trolleybuses have moved on
inside the car a hand
moves over the steering wheel
joints surrounded by a pulsing
layer of collagen
the offeror
has already gone
i never know
when and how she might come back
2024 10 31
