POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
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.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote
Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
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…
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…