14 JUNE 1944

	not a fallow field 
	my country
	the landscape of its
	history dotted by
	mountains of bones
	washed by
	rivers of blood
	my country

we know
the railbeds the cattle
	cars to the deep North
the names of the camps
the grueling days and nights ice 
	strolled through the barracks
	to caress breathing skeletons
	with fingers of death
we know
the hour they were prodded awake at dawn
the hour they collapsed at night
the rags they wore
the slop they subsisted on

we know
the ravages of scurvy
the forests of corpses felled by
	starvation  disease  overwork the temperature
we know the weather
the history
the places
	Novosibirk  Irkutsk  Kolyma

	the iron sun of the North
	glances off pain
	cones fall on winter's white moss
	the clock pendulum counts
	axe strokes in the transparent air
	guards in fur hats
	play cards someone 
	tosses the Queen of Spades
	on the table
	wind whistles through
	skulls and bones

we have read and heard survivors speak
we know it all
	children find headless corpses of
	siblings frozen to the slats of their cots

we know
but we comprehend not
one single moment of
one single day
of their time

we read names in books
volumes and volumes of books
the stacks grow
lists and lists of names
unrelated to us
not our uncles  our cousins  our mothers

our uncles  our cousins  our mothers



BLEAK MOMENTS

I

having sent the madwoman into the other room 
to play with age danger hatred 
I serve my guest the last of the almonds and hope 
as I take down my neatly pinned hair 
search the mirror for a smile 
to deny the anticipation and the fear

having drunk the first glass 
of proffered wine 
I pry loose my white-clenched fingers 
and not lowering my eyes 
extend the trembling goblet 
brimming with dangerous expectations 
to you –  

why don't you drink?


II

in my pocket I hide 
the crumbs of biscuits 
(brought for the madwoman and rejected) 
and of ingratitude

I count the disappointments

I add the nuts to the minutes of waiting 
divide by two sisters and the tramp with the guitar 
multiply by the squeal of steel strings 
	innumerable sounds 
	the madwoman's elated cries

I subtract myself

my hands swell with fear 
they don't want to 
touch loose hair 
they don't want 
anything

and in the sudden emptiness 
the wine goblet 
and the dangerous 
silence 
full of expectations 
expand

I part my lips 
bow my head 
and drink

but I won't return
no


III

two sisters 
the first awareness of insanity 
recurrent contact with loneliness

mornings ringing with cold 
after glacial nights 
I don loneliness 
like a shirt 
and it warms me

in the uneasy silence the guitar sings 
uniting two sisters me 
two lonelinesses and a madness 
or some other combination

the madwoman's smiles sail on the notes 
and her fingers revel in the sounds

I know loneliness 
it's madness that attracts me 
if I stayed... 
but I can't 
stay


IV 

two women share the mad one's life

my sister's voice cleanses me 
exudes the sweet smell of soap 
envelops in thick suds 
scours with coarse bristles: 
she is good to me 
though she doesn't always love me

the second one's voice oozes with thickening honey 
sticks to my face my hair 
sticks doesn't dry

I draw away from her 
lest a drop touch me

her tears are syrup 
and her fingers sugarcane 
I bite into one 
and out of pain anger hatred pity 
she
smiles and smiles and smiles

her house rustles with maples 
and sap seeps through the walls 
all afternoon I set out bowls to keep the floors from 
flooding 
and ponder the goblet rigid in my sister's palms 
the fear dawning in the guest's eyes 
and the glass of water with false teeth clutched by the old
woman

her daughter does not smile 
obstinately prying loose the old woman's fingers 
and I laugh and laugh and laugh 
secure in my madness

in this game 
even though my hands are empty 
I alone know who has the button

if they knew how to ask me
I would know how to tell them



LABYRINTH

I

a dream 
a barred window 
space without walls without ceilings 
a cracked round floor 
a chair assigned to me 
the maid's reluctant jaundiced smile 
and Glousnis' face reflected 
in her green nail polish

green hope 
why have we wandered here? 
to find ourselves 
to find ourselves


II

yesterday 
you suddenly embraced me 
encircled my shoulders 
my leather coat 
and said: 
for the longest time I've wanted to get close

I shuddered  
– get close to what –  
the coat or me?
 

III

Medusa 
come 
dine with me

I promise: 
no mirror 
no apple 
no kiss 
not even at midnight 
as equals

I'm not afraid of your adornments 
I plucked their stingers and rue in paradise


IV

we crack nuts 
the shell splits

eyes closed I bite into the kernel: 
sweet? 
bitter?

I wet my finger with saliva 
and gather the crumbs

with the coarsened finger 
I slowly brush my lips 
your lips

you hunger? 
so do I 
and I thirst
 


WOMAN

Feathers enter 
    into burnished leaden heels: 
she will fly.


* * *

I would have preferred a pelt 
like a cat's or a rabbit's –  
long hair 
thick, 
fine down.

The one 
I have 
is so small –  
barely enough 
to keep my fingers warm...

* * *

the salty planks of the pier smell of the sea 
and of the sea smells the coarse hair of fishermen 
their bristly beards 
the fabric of their shirts 
the closely woven yellow nets 
the shells 
the clouds 
the sky

the sea – the burning rays of the sun 
the honey and the sweat 
the sand 
the white cliffs 
the crickets' chirping

the sea and your lips 
your lips your lips

* * *

between the maze and the light
	I do not forget you 

the unkept promise 
the crossroads 
still waiting beyond the bend 
I do not forget



THE SWING

I

Sitting in the swing I watch the house:
a fine-boned, scrawny cat 
rubs against your legs.

With a rough hand 
you stroke and stroke its head...

The cat's sharp claws 
rake the stroking hand.

I lean against the swing's wooden brace 
and smile bitterly.


II

The sun flashed. 
I said nothing.

Not a word. 
Just, swinging in the sunlight, 
I picked at the peeling dark 
green paint. 
Chips drifted with leaves 
to the ground 
in a narrowing spiral.


III

We will part. 
Your hands grow cold, 
but hurriedly 
you polish 
the swing's rusted chain 
one final time. 
You do not look at me,
you do not say –  
We will part.

Crying, I follow you. 
I think about the tears, the rust, the chain: 
what bitter symbols 
life feeds us... 
We will part.

After a time 
I dip my fingers in the salty water 
and break into laughter.



* * *

I search for shelter: 
	I search for the rough palm of the Pensive Christ.



* * *

everyone is laughing 
and so are you

	like a circus girl 
	partially bared 
	and blindfolded 
	smiling 
	at the brilliant pain 
	hidden in the maestro's knives

eyes closed 
happily you tread 
the sharp blades of love 
towards scorn and disappointment
 	
	the dancer has summoned you on stage 
	no longer young 
	not graceful 
	painfully naive 
	you rush clumsily 
	to learn the steps of the immortal dance

everyone is laughing 
and so are you 
a person 
whose Achilles' heel 
is his heart



BLANCHE

there you are 
in the spotlight
the forgiving shadows of 
candlelight erased
and only you 
in the glare
gown tattered and faux tiara
glistening hair falling and your
smile broken

proudly
you do not turn from the light
beg for the magic of falsehood
the deception of magic
to forgive you
proudly
you crumple 
amid shards of rose-colored
lies

gather them up 

touch the pool of 
blood on the
wooden floor in 
the painful light of the
bare bulb
and know 
it is yours



ALICE

the kitchen witch has turned full circle
and her beaked nose points north
that's where you are

think I don't know what percolates
beneath her pointed
purple hat and scraggly hair?

she could have spared herself
I know directions
but
there is no way of getting there
I am willing
but
no well-known road
ofthis or other brick goes there
yellow has too many connotations

before today she had a
friendly way of facing east or
west
left or right
always away from the sun
now she hangs full front
gently swaying me on her string
basking in warmth
the heat inviting
as I shiver in the shadows
with the knives and forks

If I gainsay her and head south
will I reach you anyway
before the bouquet falls but still
too late

Eglė Juodvalkė, poet, journalist and prose writer, has a degree from the University of Chicago and completed studies at the émigré Pedagogical Institute of Lithuanian Language and Literature. Juodvalkė is native in Lithuanian and English, speaks German and Modern Greek. She worked for the Lithuanian Section of Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Inc. in New York and Munich, Germany, for almost 20 years. The poetry of the author of three books of verse and an autobiography has also been featured in the Lithuanian cultural monthly Kultūros barai, the cultural weekly Literatūra ir menas, Canadian literary periodical Rampike as well as many cultural and literary periodicals of the diaspora. Her articles have appeared in publications in Lithuania and abroad. Her first volume of poetry If You Touch Me was published in 1972 in Chicago. Eglė Juodvalkė is a member of the Lithuanian Writers' Union, of the Lithuanian PEN Center in Vilnius, and the Lithuanian Writers' Society in Chicago. She lives with her husband, Polish writer Henryk Skwarczynski, in the suburbs of Chicago. The poet is now working on her fourth (bilingual) volume of poetry.