I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
four-thirty a.m.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
I myself should never have been born
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
my father holds his favorite drink