POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Pit Stop in Kansas

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

Going Broke

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

Black Ghosts of Ponderosa on a Silhouette of Hill

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

An Endeavor of Being Now

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

Sprung (April)

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

Time Travel

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

Tea

my father holds
his favorite drink

Lavandula

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

Dear Deer in the Compost Pile

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

All In

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

Me and Other Bodily Accessories

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

melting ice cap
blue is the color of surrender

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

“Artifact,” as Translated from Gluberhöff’s Lexicon

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

painting of apple and grapes
Feast Of

anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple

An Interview with Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.

Ode To the Dove Pt. VI (Avrom Sutzkever)

Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.