Journey "V"
They greet us with allamanda wreaths –
A ritual for tourists – the flowers drift in sacred
Rivers and lakes, but with a paid ticket
You earn the right to proclaim the local beliefs: how tall
The Durga statue stands, how many line up to take a picture with it.
We say we seek authenticity
And pluck the allamandas – no hotel in the world
Has everything included – because when swimming through mountains
And palms, carefully tracing the craters of extinct volcanoes,
Observing the rising and falling tides of the country’s economy
In the Sugar Museum (the guide had brought us there),
Buying tea laced with spices – but not very spicy,
Vanilla – that lost its scent, and we feel the melancholy of the tourist –
As if, in truth, we saw so little, as if summer in Mauritius
Unfolded with something vital still concealed
From our eyes. We keep counting the countries we visit –
But we have yet to learn how to travel – the deception of new lands,
Unfulfillments, the guilt of being the intruder, the nostalgia
For our homeland, as if it had been better to live an eternity
In the plains of our winter, it’s bitterness
So recognizable, so clear.
Guess the Woman’s Name
I still observe and admire the woman and her covered hair,
Her face veiled, eyes glowing, seductive. In her hands
A Louis Vuitton suitcase, silk – the beauty of a secret.
I’m two months pregnant and we’re in Morocco. The beautiful woman
Speaks to us on the bus, inviting us to spend the night.
Carpets, a low table, steaming food.
Her visible hope:
She dreams of becoming the second wife, living together with us
In Europe, cooking, warming my husband’s bed,
Raising my son.
She invites me to a women-only sauna.
I refuse. As my future husband and I sleep on mattresses,
I tell him I don’t like it here.
I remember her old father, the cold water from the hose.
The beauty I failed to see at the time, but now, I recall it –
Her hospitality, modest yet respectable, her home,
And I regret not being swept away by the idea of a second wife.
Where will you take me, woman whose name I do not remember?
I keep wondering in the sleepless nights that if I call,
Would you come? The same as before, putting me to sleep
With your swaying hips and jangling bracelets.
You would descend on a Lithuanian cloud, and we’d blend
Our countries’ folklore. I hope you become someone’s first wife, and in the midst
Of airport loneliness, you bewitch fair-skinned foreign women
With your uncovered hair and open face, with eyes wide in wonder.
Lina Buividavičiūtė is a poet and literary critic. She is an author of three poetry books in Lithuanian. The poetry book Dark ages will be published in Spain this year. Lina is a Pushcart prize nominee and two of her poems won Honorable mention at Writer's digest competitions. These poems are translated from Lithuanian by Agnieška Leščinska.