TO CRACOW

m. cygalski

during my visit to cracow
it was your fingers that
clearly mapped out the limits of feelings
and the banks of dream—
your husband was very understanding

the morning of my departure
when you put your hand on my shoulder
to wake me up; the train was waiting

but your touch had awakened the past—
the warmth of your back against mine,
the misty morning near Malta pond,
the small wooden bench we sat on,
years before he came along

waking like stone
layer by layer
of sedimentary rock

my eye lids opened

and you stood there with a smile
a little sad, a little apologetic
on the other side of the river
which now flows between us