POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Fallout Shelter

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

Lavandula

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

woman at bar
After She Told Me You Pushed Her Down the Stairs

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

“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.

The Kotel in Jerusalem is Filled with Cracks

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

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.

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.

Finding My Fix

I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.

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

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.

Unerased | Steep Steps

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

if detritus is all i’m made up of

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

An Interview with Brian S. Ellis

The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.

Dis Place Ment

People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.

Pit Stop in Kansas

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

The Man

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…

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.

Condolences

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies