Margučiai (2023)

An early memory

of my Lithuanian 

grandmother blowing

the warmth from

an egg with a straw

My deprived longing

for her simple caresses

which she expressed only

with crayon wax,

controlled, gliding strokes

across an ostrich eggshell

While watching her adeptly 

etching with 

all her affection

Diasporic Lugan 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.