Girl's Night Out in Warsaw

For every memory that cringes my heart like kale,
I shall make good and scaffold with sober steel.
In the Piccolo room, cosy with parasols,
replace the waste sonatas
with the shapes that candles wrought
on blue mural stricken walls of butterflies and vines;
and the bitter-espresso strength
will be steamed and watered as we laugh
at the way that mothers are with daughters
and the ones we could not be.