For Roman Polanski

by Nijole Miliauskaite

Nijole Miliauskaite

o Pan's flute! you call to me
in the middle
of the nineteenth century

I am so happy

familiar, comfortable
things: a straw hat
on a round table, a white
dress on a chair, the mirror
you gave me on the dresser, its frame engraved
and a bouquet of flowers

the wind
stirs the curtains, brings up the fragrance
of fresh cut grass, what a remarkable

make love
in fields of heather!

light purple
clusters of heather, dark
sharp heather honey, my head

my bright
encapsulated world


these three girls, possibly sisters
out for a walk
on Sunday

their whispers
down rustling lanes, their secrets
and laughter

eyelids trembling
like butterfly

a few steps behind
with hat in hand

with a quiet
all knowing
all fixing gaze

that's how you read even
the deepest secrets in my heart


there is still
one more happy awakening after
the sun has risen: the apple
on the warm white windowsill
that someone's hand put down
as I slept (just as it did for my young
mother, long ago, in that distant
house): juicy and fragrant

o summer, o dream!

Last updated August 08, 2015