I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
my father holds his favorite drink
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.