Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

from the 6 AM POEMS

Darkness lifts the wake of dreams. The broken narratives untangle in small-window sunlight. The boat left in the snow next winter harbors blackbirds you can count on two cold hands. Let’s say the scars on your face shall heal. The … Continue reading

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DIAGONAL EXCURSIONS

To think about not thinking about the mourning doves was still thinking about them. So still in the backyard, talking of sorrow. We had been navigating through childhood neighborhoods to rescue magnolias. Driving diagonally through crisscrossed streets for a new … Continue reading

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FROZEN VIOLINS

Winter froze violins under the lake in eighth notes. Sheet music mocking ancient heroes too tired to navigate Thursday. Proclamations became frozen birds in a reel of forgetting that the moon mourned lost footprints. The children hoarded magic under porch … Continue reading

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PERMUTATIONS

It was more difficult when others watched the inevitable splintering. Other times, being unseen for too long was dangerous. When all was said and done, the finish line might be cursory illusion. The start gate, after all, had been jarring, … Continue reading

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ALL SAINTS’ DAY

The news loops and re-loops until tomorrow’s loop loops the next tomorrow. We are cloning light blue beaded swallowtails before frost settles in. The storm windows are winning us in light only painters can manipulate. Words are trite in the … Continue reading

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FALL IN

I swept the sun from the garage floor because everything hurt in reverse, and I couldn’t climb up to catch the autumn leaves as if someone were listening. No one shows up for the conversation about Monday mediocrity at the … Continue reading

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POSTCARDS HOME

The moon is venting tonight. The clock sticks to its rungs. You’re swimming underwater toward something prehistoric. Climbing a hill that doesn’t go anywhere through cloud. No one visits that many miles away from the setting sun. One hand can … Continue reading

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LIGHT INTO TUESDAY

Some of the dead keep growing old with us. They watch us breathing green light after a storm, playing word games none of us wins, paying dues in a strange currency that fell under the sea. The loneliness was too … Continue reading

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SEMICOLONS

The garden, a micro-wasteland: cracked ceramic and glass; peat moss gone amok with ice, tangle, and quandary. Mourning doves thread dirges into blackbird noise; the blue jay cry, a semicolon. Let’s pretend to be yellow, he said—the yellow of daffodils; … Continue reading

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confessions of a con-ARTist

It’s true. I’m a con-Artist. I can’t pinpoint on the calendar the day–or on the wind-up clock, the hour this new identity coalesced, grew into its genetic paws. Strangely, I’m not one iota ashamed. I daresay I might be off-the-chart … Continue reading

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