POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
The Kotel in Jerusalem is Filled with Cracks

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

necromancer woman, witch woman

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

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.

My Multiverses

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

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.

3:17 AM as Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

All In

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

Dear Deer in the Compost Pile

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

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.

Sadness is a Sin

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

“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.

Vase

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

Despairathon

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

Dis Place Ment

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

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.

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.

Condolences

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies