WHEN A BOWL OF GRATED POTATOES
FLIES OVER YOUR HEAD, YOU THINK
IT WAS MEANT FOR YOU.

Six I was, playing in a ditch
barely making a dent in this life.
A man came home to dinner – drunk.
His wife was making potato pancakes.
The man screamed – the wife cried,
children scattered about.
A bowl of grated potatoes
flew over my head,
all, because a man came home to dinner – drunk.


MY BROTHER'S FUNERAL

Three days and three nights
the Mormon Tabernacle choir
sang Christmas carols for you,
because you loved them so much-brother.
Your new, never walked on shoes
shone in the dim light
and your face showed no emotion.

* * *

It was the middle of July.
Life in the orchard was mocking you – my brother.
The rooster outside the window
conducted his fertility rites.
Life was so abundant.
In your room, the fresh cut flowers
were dying, as their scent filled the air.

* * *

And memories came back uninvited-persistent,
of a weeping willow on the other side,
weeping in the rain
while tango music pushed itself into the room
gliding along the walls
as if looking for someone to dance with.
But the red rose was already dead – brother,
it didn't even wait for you.

* * *

Past the white lace curtains
caressed gently by the wind,
I see an orchard in bloom
and a young girl in her bare feet
slowly picking blossoms of the trees
as they become apples in her hands.
I see an old man resting in the shade
of a tree.  Children are huddled around him
as he tells them stories.
His words turn into tiny kings and queens
and princesses and beautiful castles
and the children try to catch them
with their small soft hands.
The girl, with apples in her hands,
watches them intently.  She does not believe
the old man's stories and they all disappear.

* * *

The voices in the room lull me back to reality.
As I listen to the voices around me, I taste
the black, thick honey of wild bees and drink
a glass of homemade wine laced with memories
of long ago.  I hear a gentle gasp of an opening
door and see the girl, with apples in her hands,
walk towards me.  She hands me an apple and as I 
touch it, the apple turns into a blossom in my hands.

Zita Sodeika was born in Lithuania, but was forced to flee the country after the second World War; she emigrated to the United States at the age of fourteen. In the United States she attended the Art Institute of Chicago, where she graduated in 1958. She furthered her studies at the Art Institute in 1965-1966 (painting) and 1969-1970 (printmaking). Zita Sodeika has participated in numerous juried group show – invitationals in Chicago, Oberlin, Detroit, Mansfield, Columbus, Los Angeles, Toronto, Tapei, and Taiwan. The artist has had 15 one woman shows, 8 two artist shows and was one of TWELVE LITHUANIAN ARTISTS IN AMERICA shown at Corcoron Gallery, Washington, D.C. Among her many accomplishments, prizes and awards, she has been honored as the LITHUANIAN ARTIST OF THE YEAR in 1989.