Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

The dream was lost inside the book without any even pages. Beholden, we were packing our suitcases with sentences that might describe us as silly or brave. Then the travel to the Northern Lights in Alaska or Iceland, a volcano … Continue reading →

Let’s say bring the book with you, the spiderweb photo album, the last rock of Turkish candy dissolving in your throat while the sun hides behind your complicated torso. No one has to know. Pack the travel guide for Iceland … Continue reading →

Again, the book empty—betrayed. The dream leaves for other lands decorated with streetlights and one-way traffic signs. The hip said, I’m sorry for my elegy. The dog knows the horizon is a straight line, where the coyote live. To talk … Continue reading →

The book said, let the dream take us— away from the pain, the incision. Radiant cutout stars said—we’ll go, too. There are other people in the world though most stay away— not knowing what to say. We’ll ride the swings … Continue reading →

There’s a poem sleeping in September light, but sleep doesn’t bring it. Inner layering collects last week into alphabetized envelopes. After little rain for 7 weeks, the cut grass has lost its emerald sheen. Time, stubborn, pulls at Monarch wings. … Continue reading →

The dream said, I need you. Shut your green, dry eyes. We can be happy. We can leave those proliferating metal doors, your elegant process, behind. We can climb the mountains lodged in your brain with miniature goats and baby … Continue reading →

The book told the question it was in the wrong book. I’m a scholar of nonsense. The dream said, you’re asking the wrong question. I deconstructed the couch.

Sit in the garden and regale me with stories of happiness and magical birds. Summer folds its pages of garden light into miniature phosphorescent swans. The cardinal nests between your vertebrae—resting before winter and frozen birdbaths. There would be invitations … Continue reading →

The book said, your dreams are safe here. There are four exits to eternity’s wingspan. The old woman’s dreams fit in her wardrobe. She recognizes you but wants to let go. The book says, doors may proliferate even if hinges … Continue reading →

In the river, the body remembers where it became itself. It’s okay to feel anesthetized sometimes. The yellow finch bears witness, making you real. It’s time to release the hurt sparrow in your pocket. Someone will notice eventually if you … Continue reading →