By Lina ramona Vitkauskas
I, Lithuanian-American, a flexed flax,
Sanskrit buttress of bridles, buttermilk,
& mead. I, Soviet weaponry, Finn
fingers, brass Russina sex, German march,
bedded in miles of jaws & arthropods;
sterlings, stork, & calendula; I, nova
& novena of all my fathers, conjured from vapors of cigars.
Do not believe or include me,
allow me existence below larch forests
& seas. I, your town fool, burlesque
body, egg strands of impossibility
against Lituane lips.
I, beet screaming among
the sunflowers with lanky
perpetrators measuring me, with pine
shutters & iodine hope. This
morning in Kaunas, this afternoon,
animated with grain, this evening,
traceable potato bravado.
