POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Getting Postcards From a Piano Showroom

The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…

Clueless & Briefly Gorgeous

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.

Good Driver

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

Aging Punks

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

My Multiverses

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

beach
On Undressing a Color / On Undressing a Girl

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.

necromancer woman, witch woman

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

Going Broke

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

REVENGE SCENE

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.

oh Manifesto

The collective
failure
of ethical standards

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

Sadness is a Sin

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

Sprung (April)

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

painting of apple and grapes
Feast Of

anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple

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.

A Way of Seeing

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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.

You can’t make them love you, no matter how artfully you betray yourself

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

The River

I myself should never have been born

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.