‘Cracow’ by Paulina Mazur

Can one pen a poem to a city as to a lover? I can
Its streets shoot out like rays of a stained sun;
My shadow swims in its dirty river, that long,
almost forever river, its name hard to pronounce
to foreign tongues. The heart belongs to the
bone hard ground. Why not here? Why not near
oneself to this place? Place a finger on the map
of a loved one’s face, and say: we’re home,
temporarily home? This smoggy, rhymeless rain
has burrowed deep into our core. And each
tenement window has opened wide into our souls
Can one speak of alleyway as of the way one
goes? I can. Can one say “I am from?” Can
a stone recognize where it was thrown? Can
winds tell where they roam and then stop? I can.

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