Everywhere Together Always

Into talons we are turning,
like bananas we peel stars.
Near the trenches subsequently –
inconspicuous and sharp –
we plunge deep into the waters.
We are pinching tuna’s sparks.

 translated by Eglė Elena Murauskaitė

I spend sleepless nights
with my heart turned a fluttering quail:
its movements arrhythmic
scared and soaked
with dreadful sweat.

The furcula shade against the wallpaper
smells of stone and sorrel
and grows nine times in length.
Muddy puddles and woozy owls
lurking in alleys
their shadows nine times multiplied
harassing the planets and stars,
attempting to strike conversation
recruiting,
hijacking their bodies,
smashing them into a pâté,
and spreading it
on and on
pumping it into my heart
to settle –
that quail...

So strong is the wind:
it’s able to herd
all the jellyfish into a smuck
breaking the spine of the linen line
tearing mosquitos off the ceiling
bringing my head onto your pillow.

Dragonflies were already around
when the planet was cool and dominated by prehistoric ferns
and sea creatures where only starting to become amphibious.
Dragonfly jaws tearing up midges, ticks, and arachnids –
sated and smug, guaranteed to survive
for a hundred million years.

Neither dragonflies, ferns,
nor the other minuscule beings suspected
the waters would spout an all-powerful ape
who would later develop the whole infrastructure on Earth
to ensure its longevity
(albeit just for the ape).

A pharmacist with dragonfly-shaped earrings
kindly hands out eighteen packets of rutin
and double that number of bandages stopping the bleed.
Patiently listens to diatribes detailing doctor indifference,
increase in prices and vigils
behind chemotherapy doors.

Behind her back, facing the register,
an indoor fern grows...

translated by Eglė Elena Murauskaitė

Campfire
pine thicket
its bowels swarming with all kinds of animals and birds,
but mostly – moss and wild boar.

We unwrap a piece of cured bacon
from sheets of newspaper with the weather forecast –
nourished by the chewy fat that bears imprints of cyclone schemes.
In the dunes tans the skin and loin of the elderly,
along with hard beetles
(contrary to us).
Behind the dunes a hissing snake pit washes the Baltic shore.

What has displeased them?
I find it rather tasty.

Selection

Let’s say, there are seven tulips.
 
How do you select a Count from them?
 
Would you use the counting technique
or would you choose by bud’s physique?
Would you take the blossom’s temperature,
or calculate provenance by
microbial density?
 
I, personally, would give the title out by
floral force:
whether the stem can bear, e.g., a gorilla perforce.

translated by Rimas Uzgiris

Not the Fire Shift

The chicks, now being fed on corals,
ran into the boulevard and began to eat everything:
trees
weeds
and dead-end streets
shop-windows
sidewalks
newsstands
and kiosks
casinos
bistros
houses
cafés
and cafeterias
courtyards
bars
barber shops
restaurants
laundromats
tobacconists
coffee clubs
tea houses
libraries
music stores
video stores
movie theaters
and theater theaters.
 
So why have you gone nuts, my speckled ones, I ask.
Not nuts, not nuts at all, for today we’re starting a fire.

translated by Rimas Uzgiris

Waiting for the Gastroenterologist

“I have first-stage cirrhosis of the liver.”
“And for me, they just happened to find hep C.”
“I’m going for coffee, there’s a machine on the first floor.”
“Are your enzymes up?”
“It’s so hot – unbearable.”
“What are you pointing at? It’s to the right, here, lower down.”
 
A burly human, more like a bear, is also waiting
            at the gastroenterologist’s door.
In electric yellow and jade, two parrots 
            are printed on his 
shirt.
They perch on top of gaudy words
replete with exclamation points:
Florida Forever!!!
 
It will take some time
but this patient will also be called in by name
to enter the doctor’s office.
 
And even then when he learns of the 
sorry state of his liver,
the parrots of summer will not make a peep –
with their talons tight they will continue to defend
            this state not all can reach.

translated by Rimas Uzgiris

Territorial Shift

From time to time I go to buy shampoo
at a specialty store full of beauty products
containing extracts from the Dead Sea.

The shop can be found in the territory of the former ghetto
where violinists, psychology students, linguists, and athletes
wrote their diaries
and carried their kids secreted in burlap potato sacks
hoping
on the other side of the wall
to achieve a life.
The Dead Sea extracts will climb out
of all those bottles, soaps, and face cream jars
to sweep over the whole store,
flood the territory,
to redress history and a failed name – Dead.
Crabs will begin to breed on the floor,
pearls will mature in sheltering shells
propelled by the snouts of pretty fish and their fry –
they’ll play foursquare, billiards, basketball, football…
lush plants will
rustle and grow verdant.
It will be a sea full of life, peace and joy.
There, where I once walked, bought, consumed –
one who invested time and money in healthy hair.

translated by Rimas Uzgiris

I follow plump tabbies:
Impersonated voices asking for haaam
Dressing up for Halloween, sporting wigs.
Then I’m off to razed buildings in Gaza:
Bloodied heads of wee Palestinian brothers on stretchers
Weeping, thanking the paramedics for a sip of water.
Then suddenly I’m at a frenzied curl-cutting ritual
Amidst orthodox Jews,
Cut short by coachers preaching on
The toxic magnetism of anxious and avoidantly attached personalities.
Next, I’m cornered by the urgency of a last-minute sale on
Thermal tights,
And if I fail to take in some Japanese collagen,
I risk ending up all alone.

I’d love to circle back to those brothers, see if they made it out alive,
But already an asana app reminder jolts me –
I am yet to give a heart to the Ancient Woods profile,
And to a Kyiv drone fundraiser.

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