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      February 2, 2024Rimas UzgirisHaymaking

      Western Lithuania, 1993

      The farmstead was tucked away like a child
      in sheets of gently rolling Samogitian land:
      tufts of deciduous trees, the occasional stand
      of pine, long stretches of rape and rye rounded
      by the odd dairy cow fertilizing the ground.
      The man of the house watched TV, paralyzed.
      Three women worked the fields. They took me
      to harvest hay. We rode a cart pulled by a hag.
      I was given a two-pronged wooden fork—
      my “trident” to rule the waves—and struggled
      to correctly lift and tuck the golden threads
      onto the wooden loom.
                                               That morning,
      I had milked my first cow, trying not
      to show fear at the feet of the abrupt heft
      of the mammal, my senses overwhelmed
      by the scents of her muscle-rippled hide,
      by the dew-drenched grasses scumbled
      with the wildflowers of exclamation
      whose names I didn’t know, by the hot
      white manna squirting into a dented
      metal pail that pealed like a broken bell.
       
      The girls—as stout as the storks patrolling
      the fields, as focused, and as at home
      (though they too would migrate: to college
      over the horizon’s edge)—smiled at me
      as at an omen of the good life to come
      while they worked the harvest into shape,
      sculpting their load, invisibly adept.
      I was the plump anthropological specimen,
      not they, visiting from far away, from a life
      they only saw refracted through a screen.
      My God, were they strong! I was to be
      a drenched rag-doll pulled out of the sea
      in the still cool morning by the time
      we had loaded up, riding back on top
      of the pile of hay, feeling like a Breughel
      subject, completely out of place,
      as if I had been sucked into the frame
      straight from some cozy gallery couch.
       
      The tufts of trees, they explained, were graves
      of farmsteads from before the last war:
      neighbors dispossessed of their land
      and transported in cattle cars to make
      what they could of love and death
      in a New World of Siberian wastes.
      The mother had taken the fresh milk
      each day to the communist collective
      in the valley below. The land was theirs
      now, but she had to sell what they made:
      milk, salt-pork, eggs, and fowl. Her husband
      making the best of it in his wheelchair.
       
      Baling the hay from our creaky ship
      into its hollow, sun-slatted harbor,
      learning how to take that devil’s fork
      up and up and up until the loft
      was covered in rough strands of gold,
      I had had enough of anthropology by then,
      and retired to a sunny mound to read
      Mačernis’s poems about these parts:
      the young poet himself blown up in a cart
      like the one I rode, fleeing the oncoming
      Red tide, trying to find the mysterious ferry
      to the New World where my parents fled,
      finding Charon smiling instead,
      though no one knows which side
      lobbed the shell onto his family’s
      desperate ride.
                                 The three came in
      after several more rounds of hay
      had been safely stowed away: thunder-clouds
      gathered behind them like the omens of history.
      They thanked me for the “unexpected
      help.” I wanted to slink away to the city
      and never come back. They meant it.
      (I would swear they were genuinely
      full of gratitude, that not a single smile
      was snide, or false, or slow. I had a wife
      already, so this was not for show.)
       
      I walked down to their little pond
      at night, undressed and took a swim.
      Duckweed parted, mosquitos patrolled
      the sky above. Stars poked like pinholes
      through shadows of intermittent clouds.
      It was calm, small and beautiful, and meant
      nothing on its own. The city called,
      but I took the phone off its hook
      and drifted. I drifted away. I drifted here.

      from #82 – Poetry Prize

      Rimas Uzgiris

      “In the early summer of 1993, three years after Lithuania declared itself independent, thereby starting the disintegration of the USSR, I visited my then-girlfriend’s family in rural Samogitia (Žemaitija). I had never been to that region, had never heard their dialect spoken, had not ever worked on a farm, or even sat and talked with farmers. So it was quite the anthropological event for me, already feeling a bit lost and homesick after nine months in the country from which my parents once fled as refugees. I still remember that visit fondly, and finally, now living in the country again, I figured out a way to write about it. That way of life, the small, technologically simple farmstead, is dying out. So the elegy mixes here with a bit of comedy (directed at the author who felt himself quite out of place).”