Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
my father holds his favorite drink
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
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…
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.