POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Like dirt

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

Finding My Fix

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

Sadness is a Sin

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

Dis Place Ment

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

Me and Other Bodily Accessories

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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.

REVENGE SCENE

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.

Aging Punks

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

Clotheslines

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

On the Night Row-Houses Across the Street Catch Fire

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

robertson quay

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Hollywood Hills
the remarkable thing

I am still waiting for the lion

Willpower

Live the rest of your life
from one worst case to another.

Observer of the Patient

Her brown eyes,
how a fig
considers itself.

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.

Getting Postcards From a Piano Showroom

The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…

Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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