POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
All In

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

Good Driver

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

An Endeavor of Being Now

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

oh Manifesto

The collective
failure
of ethical standards

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.

love poem with dead leaves & color

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

Observer of the Patient

Her brown eyes,
how a fig
considers itself.

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.

Back Suplex

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

[Zoetrope with Particulates in it and a Newborn]

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

“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.

Unerased | Steep Steps

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

Tea

my father holds
his favorite drink

The love of my life moved from portland to new england

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

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.

The Kotel in Jerusalem is Filled with Cracks

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

necromancer woman, witch woman

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

Drowning in sky

I have observed, the theorist
I am