Letters from a Pond in Lithuania

Into the pond

I toss them:

a handful of torn up bits of

paper marked with ink.

It is a gesture like scattering seed.

 

The first utterance,

The last utterance,

And other forgotten blasts.

 

Later, I tread heavily passed-

my boots thick with mud

and pause to see

my face reflected in the dark water.

 

The first utterance,

The last utterance-

Warm cheek against the frozen glass.

 

These bits of paper they

look like little floating islands.

Some are the shape of countries.

The letter h slips passed then

o and

e and

m

caught in some current from behind.

 

The first utterance,

The lost utterance,

I must take leave of my thorny past.

 

Today I carry water for the little trees.

Water sloshes

against the bucket’s rusting sides.

They will not leave me alone

These broken hearts.

 

The first utterance,

The lost utterance,

Fly my foreign flag from the dog-mauled mast!

 

No, not mine.

Not mine these tears-

Perhaps a few-

not all

By any means.

Who would have thought,

so, so,

heavy when contained?

 

The first mutterance,

The lost gutterance,

The die is cast then lost in the whistling reeds.

 

These letters and divided words

Blur blue and black and red

Before they sink-

not all.

What is beneath these tangled rotting weeds?

 

Forgive my mumbling

lips and spitting tongue-

I lean heavily towards the giddy English fool.

 

Then some remnants rise

to the surface and float

next to some insects-

those with the spindly legs

and eyes on stalks-

whose invisible feet

dent

the watery film.