Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

D I S L O C A T I O N [ S ]

  I. Clear sky on pristine snow—equals a glaring Migraine Room with not enough doors to the mountain—too much light—too much chaos. I did touch you, but I froze. I mean I froze—and tried to touch you. The order of … Continue reading

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from E C H O [ E S ]

A:   I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove. Z:   That I have – nothing – to prove.   A:   This path is shadow. Z:   Yes, this I know     Z: Your silence frightens me. I search but cannot … Continue reading

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LEAVING THE LABYRINTH

When I wake shrouded in warm mist though it is still velvet black night holding all the frozen stars, I do not recognize what we have become. The field where I wept with the dog in my arms; the plateau … Continue reading

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THIS IS NOT A PRETTY POEM

  This may be a rude question—a little up front—in your face—but what the hell are you here for? –At my door soaked from the sleet and rain—after wandering your darkest imaginings by the trap door in the field abutting … Continue reading

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DANGER

Don’t watch the World News anymore. It’s not the news of the world, but rather a sad commentary of Trumpism. You will hear nothing about Aleppo, the West Bank, Puerto Rico, Africa, China—most of the map you study before elusive … Continue reading

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IN MEMORY OF MY HANDS 2, or TINY COFFINS

I miss you so much in the future already. My Archives of the Future. See H for House [of Being], hands, handiwork, hardship, unhandy, handless, hurt, holy, he, him, hearsay, human, holding, hope, honor, Henryk, hatching, etc. It’s been a … Continue reading

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BURNISHING[S]

Logic follows    everyone fallen    [not an anchor] yesterday   lifted   empty turrets stone home                 seeing the breath dreaming the luncheon pulled from dizzy   A [re]presentation that would not be understood applauded, hollow.   *   The smallest … Continue reading

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CODA OF RAIN

The sea thistle later this year than last—a reminder of how summer can stall—free falling cold and rain—falling in strings of days longer than could be accounted for—standing there by the rusted gutter in back—wondering about it all. Daylight falls … Continue reading

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In Memory of My Hands, or The New Ghosts in the House

You were beauties back in the day. Some would have said graceful, especially in your mother’s black velvet gloves up to the biceps (also slender then) with a million black pearl buttons. I know, you couldn’t even button one now. … Continue reading

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Night Gardening

The rain found us in warm early winter near the night garden—sitting in the doorway-frame— hearing, not each other—but only rain. Until she, as I begged her—came to reclaim my wild-river hair, cleanse my face of contamination of days gone … Continue reading

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