Kiss Me When We Make it to Krakow

The only writings I’ve ever had published,

are the pieces about you,

you Slavic crown of thorns,

you, the butterfly at my throat,

you dusty empire,

you, a misshapen memory.


As I aim to fight off the sleeping pills,

while I lay atop this bed of bricks,

I’m unable to sink into dreams of cotton candy.


Your home becomes closer to my coast.


My ankle breaks,

as you cut the noodles where they bend,

and the old lantern we built together

burns the barn down.


In the middle of the city,

we lose ourselves amidst pink elephants,

twirling as if in harmony.


The wagon decays before we’re ready,

tumbling us out onto a patch of land

called Oregon.


We decide to ride the horses home.

And I drift into a never-ending slumber.

Alexander Rigby