POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Letter To a Young Poet

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Despairathon

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

Lobster

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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.

The love of my life moved from portland to new england

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Finding My Fix

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

My Multiverses

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

The Body is a Sin

The sin is existing.

Electric Eels, Finishing School, Teeth

Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.

Vase

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

The River

I myself should never have been born

Tea

my father holds
his favorite drink

love poem with dead leaves & color

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

things they won’t tell you but should:

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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.

Back Suplex

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

The State School 1984 His Given Name Was Wilbur  We Called Him Magpie

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

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.

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.

Lavandula

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…