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…
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
I am still waiting for the lion
I have observed, the theorist I am
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
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.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.