Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

1 dancer [hazel] I slept in the Book of the Dead and woke with parchment scrolls blooming tired magnolias from my unhinged mouth. Lugubrious cellos attempted to climb me back to the mud-encrusted, brick floor–but I panicked. When my thinking … Continue reading →

I wanted to go there but I can’t remember—to be with someone lost in the field of wildflowers—that disappeared when I touched a memory that confused the horizon. The address of the doctor who promised not to cure me but … Continue reading →

Let’s not get into this now—this driverless car that could easily crash that neither of us can afford, this city taxi cab (that will drive too fast near the bicycle lane)—or step into this afternoon of apple-green light, prescient of … Continue reading →

We were on page 72—cringing as the main character stepped onto the plane, knowing what would happen because of the foreshadowing on page 47. Her fiance would be destroyed in the next chapter, which might require tissues or a walk … Continue reading →

The gods and goddesses convened and after much vehement debate, opted that the human world or plateau as they called it, would end on a Monday to give their underlings a last-hurrah weekend though the creatures wouldn’t be privy to … Continue reading →

I’d like to return this exquisite bouquet I purchased here a bit over a week ago. As you can see for yourself, all the chartreuse orchids and fuchsia oriental lilies are dead. Here is my crumpled receipt. Sorry about that. … Continue reading →

for Thom Foster, the titler of this poem 1. Sun angled on intense white snow seizes the eyes as prisoners. The cell is lonely. It lacks the necessary memory of other cells— genetic codes inscribed upside down or backwards— deviant … Continue reading →

1. Check the double D batteries of the trove of flashlights in the pantry closet because more than three-quarters don’t work and the high winds violently whipping outside—will knock out the electricity again. Bring the rotting, termite-infested birchwood logs (the … Continue reading →

The ghosts of the house have supplanted me. I don’t want to dream anymore. All plants have souls: Socrates. He picked his own poison: hemlock. The chalice clung frozen to his lies but he was not fearful of fate he … Continue reading →

This coming Saturday when I shall see you, a fellow human— seems so long ago, half-years, in fact. I’m in dog time imploring focus, but the dog doesn’t realize this—nor anyone, I think—I might touch. The frenzied bird lodged itself … Continue reading →