An early memory
of my Lithuanian
grandmother blowing
the warmth from
an egg with a straw
My longing for simple
crayon-waxed caresses
While watching her adeptly
etching with
all her affection
Beautiful litvak with
knowledge of Easter eggs
sharp as needles with which
she afflicted their plump
promise,
she could relate to them:
she had been stuck and
drained, too.
But she had survived it all.
—She won’t talk about
Those Things and That Time
but she cannot bring herself to speak about
anything else. She speaks in
bright crayons and toothpicks—
Margutis,
vibrant shell:
when you glue on a sequin,
you cover its wound,
and it can serve no purpose
anymore but to feel
vibrations:
the pulse of
living fingertips.
Margučiai,
vacant wombs:
though they’ve lost their warmth,
their colors breathe a certain life
from their little wooden bowl.
