The sight of wasabi reminds me of Poland.
“Kocham sie” worn on my sleeve,
sensational stress packed in my heart and
seeing you at the airport was like saying my first words for the first time.
Kocham sie. You taught me that.
There is no place like Warszawa because it’s fake and so poignant in the same light.
You took me through it all –
the salt mines, the uprising, the castle that dominates all of Krakow,
the old town and the worst Russian palace in history.
Two weeks later kocham sie transformed into a bland British love song.
And then, nothing at all. “Nothing’s gonna save my world” said John Lennon – Kocham Sie predicted that.
Polish men don’t cry – seeing me was a French excursion.
You sighed at the airport and I crashed on the way home.
In my headful wreckage the steward’s strong and forceful hand grabbed my shoulder
then told me to look the other way – especially to the West.
And so high above I looked at Warsaw like Chopin would have done when he exiled,
and in between the syllables of kocham sie echoing in my softened fuselage, I realized
every touch of greatness forever wrecks somebody’s mind.
(Kocham Sie means I love you in Polish.)