you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
I have an axe with hearts gashed
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
I am still waiting for the lion
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
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.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts