My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
four-thirty a.m.
I have observed, the theorist I am
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud