Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

I don’t know where to begin in the house that begins without me. Moths took over the pantry 7 mornings ago. Air conditioning crashed the heatwave. There’s no name for the missing part in the original sentence-frame. The lawnmower broken … Continue reading →

The anodyne won’t erase wayward dreaming. Save your money for objects and gifts you can’t drink. The old woman’s porch is on fire with orange Monarch wings. Powder-dust—teal. A human conversation, an imprecise reaction— a reel let down into uncertainty’s … Continue reading →

Where were we then? At the kiosk buying new night dreams. At the shallow river skipping white stones too thin. In cathedral-forest sunlight ribboning people we couldn’t be anymore. Troubled but feigning the bravery of bird song gathering thistle before … Continue reading →

The woman who has forgotten words wins at cards. We’re playing horseshoes by the hyacinths. Sleeping through mornings became a bad habit. I’ll build you a poem after lunch or a mountain of sand. With new medication, I can speak … Continue reading →

Rain and ice fall on our House, enchanting. Other inhabitants dream of chartreuse leaves unfurling from the tree-skeleton limbs at the windows– emeralds far beneath the snow, love again. Dust settles on material things they no longer need: the untuned … Continue reading →

Meet me at the corner of trauma and belief, crocus and daffodil, underneath where I buried the dolls, their cracked faces, eyes open since winter. Lily of the valley cupped bells and bleeding-heart lace shall decorate our sadness with iris … Continue reading →

Daffodil cups, intense yellow, trading sun. The house, a main character, gives away its chimney, porch light, stairs. The ceilings are filled with mourning doves, twitching pigeons. At night the cello becomes human. I had missed him, but the space … Continue reading →

The brain is a city turned in on itself. Parts of the grid have disappeared. The neighbors can’t speak to one another about where they’ve been. Children recognize their parents’ sorrows. The mayor sleeps farthest from the sun. Wind storms … Continue reading →

The newly-fallen snow lights up the night. We are beholden in the field of the poem. When the planes lean down into their lights to land, we still ourselves in sink holes from long-ago buried tree trunks. No one really … Continue reading →

Sleep comes and wants to take us. Where? I ask, but sleep doesn’t answer. Dreams pouring the boiled kettle over frozen birdbaths. Winter drinking darkness and fire, domino-ing subtractions. The holiday misplaced its presents, your blue notebook of revisions, my … Continue reading →