For more Poetry from Lithuania

Marius Burokas Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys Simpleton I would so much like to be a Rosicrucian, Mother to live secretly in a cellar in a castle, accessible to no one I would have lots of good intentions a pronounceable surname and a fiefdom of peasants I would perform rituals after swearing fealty by candlelight to the Master of the Order and in the morning I would ascend the ramparts the tallest tower the North Wind fluttering my cloak spurs striking sparks good good what can be better when no one knows how secret and good you are do you remember those two islands do you remember those two islands which you, groaning, separated sometime after the dose of arsenic in the burnt porridge—we do it this way in Paris—like Madame Laforge— she said, wiping her hands do you remember those two sons whom you unshelled, separating the eggwhites from the yellow yolks of joy in a sterile room—behind the window, the Bahnhof, September and rain do you remember the blue city on both sides of the river, sad violinists baptized with pomegranates, feet slashed by sunlight, palms on the table, the laugh of wine, together, mine, me do you remember being covered up, wheeled, shaken, eyes—grapes on the plate of the ceiling, the chalked outline of the body,                    darkness,                               bloodblood turn me into dice turn me into dice—sides alike, fortune-telling faces, I meekly submit my head and everything—that's not mine— the bike, the bakery in the morning with bodies smothered in pleasure, curdled asphalt, the general store with foot-worn floor, stag-beetle crawling over the townbridge with dignity— everything left at low tide: unsure things, walnuts of memory— scoop out the eyes and slide the loaded dice so I can lie to myself— then we can face each other over the cloth-covered table, here while time is ours before everyone drowns in the roaring green