Poems Full of Words, Four of Them, Mostly Hopeful – Saule Konstantinavicius
May 16, 2026
[Iza plays the organ]
for me in the university chapel, just us two.
The knee rest groans as I lower it,
and when I press my knees down into its cushion,
my body curls into the smooth wood before me on instinct.
Oh, how the body remembers what the mind does not.
It has been a long time since I have sat in the pews.
My line of sight did not used to be so high from a kneeling position.
In our small country church, in the early mornings,
I would slink down during prayer, bleary eyed,
and rest my brow on my clasped hands.
In the darkness between my palms, I folded in
on myself and was enmeshed in a dream of many-tongued mouths,
of our prayers streaming out of the thurible in ribbons.
Everything there was gilded, aged, detailed with decadence:
a chandelier descended down from heaven,
a red carpet streamed through the center aisle.
Above the altar, a painted stork wrapped her wings
around her children and bore her breast
to feed the hungry things drops of her sweet blood.
The university chapel has more restraint.
It is the hollowed out interior of a perfect ivory bone.
Clean and concise. The music fills it like marrow.
Iza says she’s not an organist but her fingers are
reverent and all music is some form of worship,
so it makes no difference to me.
She plays something bright and sweet
and suddenly service is over and my grandmother
squeezes my hand, smiling down at her only believing grandchild.
At least one of them will be saved. She is grateful.
In a city on the other side of the world and on the other end
of a decade, I rise and pace tall pale aisles
with my fingers locked together behind my back.
There is no parish. There is no prayer.
Iza plays the organ for me in the university chapel.
It is just me that listens. It is just us two.
[white night, hot hoof]
there and back and there and back
the wrong way twice, first,
and an unwilling witness
blood shed for offer
from where you take motion
bleed with what moves you,
meaning, bleed forward
with a cotton pad stuck in your sock,
soaking up the heel
against its razor backing
slide yourself skull first
into the weight that holds down the veil
twist arounds and in-braiding,
like chain link candles,
like fire and mischief for mischief’s sake
unfortunate fortunes,
dreadful strangers
dread on its own, too,
everywhere, in the background, breathing
the realization we might have made it through the winter
just for spring to be salt-earthed
if the fire that fuels you is angry,
then let it be angry –
whatever lights you,
if it lights you,
is worthy
at this point
thank something
or nothing,
and if there’s goodness,
thank goodness –
good luck and
good riddance
[User Manual For Your Body]
You can lock yourself together,
stretch the lines
or let yourself hinge at your vertices –
ragdoll, throwaway sketch.
Assume a position, a stance,
some verdict on the moment.
Tension, keep the tension constant and fluid.
Contradict yourself.
How else will you know
what it is you’re made of?
How else will you feel
yourself against the ground?
Do not think,
but understand what your bones do
when they cast themselves like dice
onto an unmade mattress,
falling in perfect asymmetry:
the whole of your form broken
and mendable.
See the slight ridge of your wrists
and the peaks your shoulders aspire to
as they shrug to cradle your throat,
jagged only like sea glass.
Press into yourself
and give way under pressure.
Sponge and tissue. Early leather.
Read yourself like braille.
Rub cells between your fingers.
Acquaint your brow bone with your knees
and see light slip through
between your thighs.
Then reach, out, out, out –
feel your ligaments and sinew straining
to maintain composure.
Feel the pull of a system
that knows it must stay together.
Look at it this way:
for all the grief and grievances,
even you cannot tear yourself apart.
[Two Turns Three]
To whom do I owe my rib cage split open,
wet and lightly salted, set out on the table?
Enough inquisition! I’m not tired anymore &
I wasn’t here, anyways. This place smells like
paint. I used to be high all the time,
no problem. Some problems.
Two moths have drowned themselves
in my vicinity recently –
I’d like to think they meant to.
Now that we’ve saved the daylight,
word on the street is it’s going to be
a big season for waking up and barking:
Woof woof woof!
Maybe arf
or ruff?
Arf arf arf.
Good morning.
It’s a good morning. I’m waiting on sleep.
I’ve been keeping a strict regimen
of pills and timers, aside from that,
it’s anything goes. I’m seeing bugs later,
a whole big room of them.
There will be isopod mystery bags —
$50 a pop. A steal!
I don’t need any more creeping or
crawling on my end of things though, thanks.
They’ll make beautiful children for someone.
I’d like to imagine them all tucked in,
little legs wriggling,
impatiently waiting for a bed time story…
My friend’s cat is starting to like me,
but where I stand with the one
my new roommate brought is still up in the air.
I have to flatten myself against the wall
to let him bolt past me down the stairs
in peace. The new lease is finally signed &
I’ve gone back to work.
The dryer’s half way fixed.
I need to get new shoes.