Zemgale / Apimanias

excerpted from ZEMGALE
by Quintan Ana Wikswo



One feather fell from the ceiling – a perfectly clean, crisp ceiling with no visible birds. No visible signs of verbs. I mean, bees.

This feather fell into the stack of pills. I had them in a vase instead of flowers. I’d gone to see the neurologist. The neurologist said,here are some pills. They’re very new. We don’t really know what they do. Try them out, and see what happens.

They were in a cardboard portfolio, with a photo of two generations of humans embracing, unencompered by disability. On the portfolio, words – Zimgala is freedom. Mobility. Independence. Pills encapsulated in plastic and aluminum foil and existential verbs. I mean, bees.


The city urinates its medications. He threw his pills into the Baltic Sea, and the gulls dove for them. Despair. Defiance. Gravity. Hunger. No visible signs of verbs.

To love a verb is to do, to be, to go, to see, to want, to believe, to know, to have. Some loves are only nouns. Daffodils. Pillow. Remorse. Amulet. Bee-keeper.


In the world before, in Zemgale, in Latvia, I had rows of handpainted blue boxes, always vibrating.


Published in Beyond Baroque (performance, April 2012)