POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
i do not want to wait until it’s too late

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

close up of sun
Mercury in Retrograde

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

I could, even now, go down to the water

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

You can’t make them love you, no matter how artfully you betray yourself

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

Finding My Fix

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

An Endeavor of Being Now

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

Despairathon

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

melting ice cap
blue is the color of surrender

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

Hollywood Hills
the remarkable thing

I am still waiting for the lion

Aging Punks

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

Tea

my father holds
his favorite drink

Ode To the Dove Pt. VI (Avrom Sutzkever)

Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.

Snow Falls from Branches

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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.

“Artifact,” as Translated from Gluberhöff’s Lexicon

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

The Body is a Sin

The sin is existing.

Time Travel

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

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.

Mom, in Her Dementia, Steals Oranges

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place