Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
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.
the man is stayed bent over the canvas of my sofa. the man is me the man is him self and I bring down the whip…
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
The sin is existing.
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
I have observed, the theorist I am
I have an axe with hearts gashed
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.