I myself should never have been born
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
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.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
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.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
I have observed, the theorist I am
I am still waiting for the lion